


In Your Eyes Were All the Colors the Rainbow Forgot

by Cannebady, Nonexistenz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), But Aziraphale is more subtle, But Aziraphale is slower on the uptake, Community: Do It With Style Events, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley dreams frequently, Digital Art, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, This is soft lads, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29533839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonexistenz/pseuds/Nonexistenz
Summary: Initially, God intends all of her creations, angels included, to have a soulmate so that they can experience the full spectrum of Her love. One archangel-cum-demon has the misfortune of meeting his just moments before he's cast down into the depths of Hell. It turns out demons are cursed with more than just their Fall and loss of God's love - knowledge is a real pain-in-the-arse honestly, which makes the apple tree thing nauseatingly poetic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 162
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	1. Cannot Be Together, Lest we Eat Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thanks for reading! This is our submission for the Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang!
> 
> Luckily, this is accompanied by the artwork of the extremely talented Nonexistenz! [Check out their awesome work here](https://i.imgur.com/B1pkIaM.png)
> 
> As always, editing isn't my strong suit, I hope you enjoy it, and please be kind.
> 
> Title is from "Snow Owl" by the Mountain Goats, chapter title is from "Alright" by Keaton Henson.

_Before the Beginning_

Heaven was not always bleach white and sterile, teaming with angels gliding about in their Brooks Brothers best.

There was a time, far before gardens and serpents and garden walls complete with those who may guard them and serpents who were compelled to know just a little bit _more_. It existed, before even, the invention of linear time.

At this time, Heaven was a growing and nurturing thing, where Her first creations, Her children, were tasked with bringing her visions to light. 

It was there, to the direction later identified as West, where one of the first angels, clad in flowing robes the color of starlight (something he’d just yesterday hewn into creation) stared into a reflection pool and first saw it. It would be a misnomer to call what he comprised of a _body_ in the common sense. Similar to Heaven itself in this age, he was built of more of an _idea_ of a body; a structure that might, in the future, come to resemble the concept of a body.

Regardless of the physical, which they had been reassured She was working on (and, if the holy scuttlebutt was to be believed, was going to be _big_ ), She had been emphatic about love being woven into every corner of the universe they were creating. Kind of Her thing, love had been, and so She had announced that for each creature, there would be a partner, for each star there must be a binary system by which they orbit, and for each angel, there was to be a soulmate; another of their kind that, once found, would allow them a better understanding of this place and Her love and Her plan.

This angel, was all too eager to meet his. While some angels had approached the idea with trepidation, he’d been desperate to know more. It was like he’d be dragged into creation knowing nothing more than that he wanted to know _everything_ and had gotten started as soon as he could. But there were millions of angels and the sprawling, infinite expanse of Heaven between him and this more perfect knowledge and he found it frustrating, which earned him more than a few eye rolls (a very human response he’d later come to rely on himself, once things like humans and eyes had been brought about).

Of course he’d asked around, and who better than his fellow archangels to provide some insight. Unfortunately, they had not been particularly helpful, overall.

Gabriel had encouraged him to have patience in Her plan; she had chosen soulmates for them all so it was predestined, and he would find his soulmate when She felt the time was right. Sandalphon had scoffed at the idea, preferring instead to tend to his legions. Michael had given him a sympathetic look, rested a hand on his shoulder, and told him it’d be worth it. They’d then looked to their soulmate, the first pair that found each other, and letting all of their golden light pour onto Uriel, who smiled back the same. The exchange made some primal ache in his chest, so he bid them a good day and carried on to work on the stars. They were his best work, after all.

He knew that new angels were being brought into creation daily to help continue to enact Her vision, and protect it, and knew that he quite literally had forever. That being said, he couldn’t stop looking at the outline of an object on his not-quite-an-arm. It was small and appeared to be some kind of rectangular object split in half, but still whole. He moved aside his copper hair and shifted his form to and fro hoping to catch the symbol from a different angle in hopes of identifying it. He was curious as to what it was, but was confident that when he met his soulmate, they’d figure it out together.

Some angels had names, some had words or phrases in Enochian, and some had directions etched into their skin to lead them to their one and only. Of course, he’d end up with something completely indecipherable making him even harder for his soulmate to find. He’d asked once, if any other angels felt a lonely kind of longing when they were left to their tasking, but his question had been met with worried glances and not an ounce of recognition. For an archangel, Raphael certainly found himself feeling powerless and other quite often.

Perhaps that’s why, when Lucifer and a few of his cohorts stopped by, he was relieved to chat (it didn’t hurt that Lucifer had not found his soulmate yet and just happened to be terribly handsome). Perhaps that’s why when they spoke of a new order, he didn’t immediately turn tail and raise the alarm. Perhaps the hows and whys don’t really matter, but the whole structure of things has quite decidedly been turned on it’s holy head and there are legions of angry angels chasing their brethren into a growing void.

Raphael, being quite accustomed to being on his own, moved himself to a far field just North of the action. He was hoping to come up with a way out, a way it didn’t need to be like this. Midway through his panic (and lack of actionable plan), he sees someone approaching but cannot make out much more detail than unruly blonde curls and a sturdy form, before there’s a nervous angel pointing a flaming sword like he knows what to do with it but would really rather not.

He has a fraction of a second to feel the tightening in his chest, the lightning bolt strike through his form and the searing from his arm, which he clocks as fear for his life, before a clipped, proper voice is saying, “What’s all this then?”

Suddenly, the sword thunks down and a helmet is removed and Raphael understands in that moment that his reaction wasn’t fear but infatuation. He remembers Michael describing what it was like meeting Uriel and Raphael knows, with complete certainty, that _this_ is his someone. He’s overjoyed for a moment before realizing that this means they’re on opposite sides. What a way to start out.

“Nice to meet you too-,” he realizes that he only faintly knows this angel’s name.

“Aziraphale.” The angel replies. Yes, he remembers that. Much newer angel, a Principality if he recalls, which makes the sword and helmet make a lot more sense, and his approach make a lot less.

“Ah, Aziraphale. Shouldn’t you have a platoon ready to toss me into oblivion?” He hates how harsh his words sound directed at someone who should be his other half, but he’s struggling with quite a few things right now and thinks that he may be forgiven for his misstep.

“Yes, _that._ Well,” the angel sighs and it feels world weary and Raphael feels the innate needs to comfort him, draw him close and protect him. The angel finishes by mumbling something that sounds a lot like, “I lost them.”

“You _what?_ ” He asks, incredulous.

“ _I lost them!_ ” He groans, covering his (lovely) not-quite-a-face with his (also lovely) not-entirely-hands-yet before continuing, “I was an archivist but then it was ‘Lead your platoon Aziraphale, make sure they know how to fight to defend all of this Aziraphale’ and before I knew it I had just said, ‘There’s the fight, do your best, and don’t let the light go out on you here’ and now I’ve been wandering about figuring out what to do next.”

He’s fretting. Quite honestly fidgeting with discomfort because Aziraphale, this soft, quiet angel had been told by the almighty Herself to fight for glory and honor and he kind of can’t be arsed to do it. Raphael is absolutely, irrevocably in love from that moment.

“It is a bit gloomy.” He responds.

Aziraphale smiles and he honest-to-God lights up their little area in Heaven, and then he reaches out to help Raphael up. They spend a moment staring at each other, and he sees Aziraphale reach to press what will eventually come to be known as a hand to his eventual arm and Raphael knows he’s feeling the same pull. He means to mention it, he means to press closer and see what happens, but at that moment there’s a commotion and then all Hell breaks loose.

Aziraphale’s platoon has found him which means they’ve found Raphael and Aziraphale is yelling for them to stop because he’s also just figured out what that feeling means, which means he’s also feeling this screaming pain, straight through his form, while Raphael is carried away and thrown to the void.

The Falling doesn’t hurt as much as the distance does, and the sulfur doesn’t hurt as much as the sight of jet black wings in his periphery where pearlescent white once was, and none of it hurts quite as much as the knowledge that he’d just figured out his most important question before the solution was summarily ripped from him.

He has hands and feet and legs and arms now. He has Eyes and a heart (although that’s debatable, he supposes, _demon_ after all), and he remembers _everything_ except for his name. He also has another form now, a serpent.

While he was Falling, he heard her voice in his head; “ _You will crawl on your belly and you will eat dust all the days of your life.”_ , so they’ve taken to calling him Crawly which is fine, if uninventive, and he can’t remember his name anyway. He’s not sure he wants to; he’s something else now. He spends a part of his time as a large serpent, black and red and terrifying, but sometimes more comfortable than the bastardization of what he once was. He still has his copper hair, his golden complexion, but where his dark brown eyes were, he now has yellow, slitted monstrosities. It’s a lot to process, but not nearly at the top of his list when he’s dealing with existential pain, _thank you very much._

But sometimes, when he’s found a corner alone to process, he repeats the name _Aziraphale_ again and again and again, because he has a flight of fancy and he has something that his demonic brethren do not; he has hope. One day, he hopes with his entire wreck of a heart, that he’ll find a way to find his soulmate again. Crawly wants to be sure he remembers his name on that day.

Since the Fall, he’s learned of Her next big project; the planet Earth, complete with Humans (whose prototypes look quite a bit like his form does now), and when they decide that they’d like a demon to go on up and cause some trouble, he tosses his hat in the ring immediately and is chosen seeing as he was the only applicant.

He chooses his serpent form, sleek and malleable, and breaks ground in the most beautiful place he’s ever seen. Crawly notes the bugs, and animals, and birds, and the lovely grass and lovelier rocks.

And just as he’s about to allow himself a moment to make a plan, he sees a shadow move along the Eastern wall of Eden.

He can’t make out much by way of details, but what he sees is a cloud of ice blond hair, a flaming sword, and the loveliest hands he can remember.

His thoughts come to a grinding halt and he spends a moment wondering if this is luck or punishment. Either way, it’s an undeniable fact that his soulmate is, after an eternity, standing just a mile off or so from where he is. But Crawly isn’t what he used to be and he doesn’t know what that means. Doesn’t know if Aziraphale has another soulmate now or if he’d remember Crawly at all.

So for now, he sits and plans his wiles per his instructions from Downstairs and thinks that maybe, this is the second chance he’s been hoping for.

* * *

_The Beginning: Eden, 4004 BC._

Crawly really does prefer Eden to Hell. Not that anywhere on any of the available planes would have to try to particularly hard to be better than Hell. Hell is, well, _Hell_. It’s damp and dark and he doesn’t like his coworkers overmuch and he really can’t overstate the _damp_ of it all. Eden, on the other hand, is gorgeous. The grass is lush and there’s lovely rocks that he can bask on and a nice pond or three where he can swim after he’s basked long enough, and the entirety of it is fit to bursting with brand new life. The only problems with Eden are that he’s supposed to be finding a way to get the Humans banished from it and that his erstwhile soulmate is still wandering around, none the wiser that Crawly is here, being very beautiful and very endearing and so very lacking in the accompanying mark Crawly’d expected to see on his arm, yet still pulling on Crawly’s heart strings which, by all means, also shouldn’t be there anymore.

The greater challenge is that the angel doesn’t seem to have the same reaction to him. He’s been bold and slithered close to the angel (as a much, _much_ , smaller snake) to see what would happen and while he did get the benefit of Aziraphale picking him up and showering praise on him _(“Oh what a lovely serpent you are, She made no mistakes here, look at how lovely your eyes are! Ah, this rock should be just perfect for you!”_ ), which was absolutely _incredible_ and is something he most assuredly wants to experience again, it doesn’t appear that the angel felt anything _else_. Anytime he so much as looks at Aziraphale his chest squeezes tight and his entire being feels like it’s being pulled toward that pillar of light. Regardless, Aziraphale seems to be able to flit about the garden, chat with the humans, marvel at the creatures, and partake of the fruits without skipping a beat.

It fills Crawly with a sense of loss he isn’t prepared for; he’s glad on some level that Aziraphale is here and that he can see him. He spent so much time after he Fall trying to remember what the angel had looked like, and it’s a relief to see him here, whole and unharmed. It is, however, acutely painful not to have his bone deep and abiding recognition reciprocated. What is his love worth if there’s nowhere for it to go? Instead, he just feels even more alone than he has in eons. That being said, he really can’t oversell how much better the view is here than down Below.

So, he finally figures out a plan so simple and elegant that he’s sure it couldn't possibly work. There’s a tree, just there, with a brilliantly red fruit growing from it and nothing more than a “Don’t Touch Me” sign. All it takes are a few well-placed whispers in Eve’s ear (Adam is just a bit too preoccupied with killing and eating the creatures of the garden for Crawly to try slithering up _that_ tree), and before he knows it the proverbial axe has fallen. He’s surprised to find that he can still feel guilt.

But his turmoil is productive in the sense that he finally decides to rip the band aid off (whatever a band aid is he isn’t sure yet, but he has a gut feeling the phrase will catch on eventually), and confront the angel in his human form (the fact that he finally got the hang of these bloody _legs_ sure helps his confidence).

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.” He says because he can’t think of anything else and it has the benefit of being true.

“Sorry, what was that?” The angel replies.

“I said, ‘That went down like a lead balloon.’” He repeats. The angel is quite lovely up close, no surprise there, radiating all of his inner light at the stone of the wall and an unsuspecting demon. His eyes are several different colors now that Crawly considers them, and he looks every inch soft, comfortable, and handsome. It’s not doing much to help Crawly’s poor heart.

“Ah, yes. I guess it rather did.” The angel replies. He’s looking at Adam and Eve, striking out on their own. Crawly might be wrong, but he sees a complicated look pass those delicate features; one that seems equal parts concern and pride.

They chat idly for a few minutes about everything and nothing, good and evil and the like, their own natures, before he makes an observation.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” He asks abruptly. “You did! It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?”

“I gave it away.” Aziraphale mumbles low enough that it barely registers as spoken words. When Crawly strings together the meaning he’s forced to confirm his thoughts.

“You _what?”_ he replies, shocked and feeling and eerie sense of déjà vu.

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale cries. “There are vicious animals! It’s going to be cold out there. And she’s expecting already! And I said, ‘Here you go. Flaming sword. Don’t thank me and don’t let the Sun go down on you here.’ I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

Crawly’s heart is trying very hard to fight against it’s perfect programming and inability to cause infarction, because _this_ , this is his soulmate. His entire corporation is singing. He’s sweet and kind but also kind of a bastard and Crawly loves him just as much as he did when Aziraphale didn’t kill him for avoiding his fate.

“Oh, you’re an angel, I don’t think you _can_ do the wrong thing.” It’s designed to be sarcasm, a layer of protection against the intense affection he’s feeling, but of course the angel completely misinterprets it.

“Oh! Oh, thank you. It has been bothering me.” He’s wringing his hands again and fidgeting. Evidently this angel is somewhat alright with doing wrong; he’s more just concerned he’ll be found out. Interesting.

They chat for a few more minutes, watch Adam slay a lion (and he watches Aziraphale swallow as he realizes that the weapon bestowed upon him by God Herself has just been used to kill one of her creations), and when the rains start coming Crawly gets a little nervous having not seen it before. Clocking his discomfort, Aziraphale takes him under his wing and protects him.

Crawly’s heart soars but he can’t see any change in demeanor. It breaks his heart in a way that he didn’t think could happen anymore. He decides to stay as long as the angel will allow it.

Unbeknownst to him, Aziraphale takes a deep breath and tries to process why he feels so attached to this demon, why he feels a bone-deep instinct to protect and comfort him.

They stand on the wall looking out over the desert for far longer than the first storm takes to quiet down. Then it’s time to leave the garden. One demon with a heavy heart and one angel feeling the strangest, strongest pull he’s ever felt go their separate ways. Crawly can’t help but hope he’ll cross the angel again. The angel convinces himself that he should keep tabs on the demon, just in case.

That night, in a small shelter in the desert, Crawly dreams for the first time. He's aware of things in a way that allows him to take only a scant few details, but somehow he knows the shape and feel of this already; as if he was recalling the experience, which is preposterous but comforting somehow. Either way, he's _warm_. Not warm and humid like he's accustomed to in the bowels of Hell, but soft and warm from the inside out, as if he's found the place he's supposed to be. In his slumber, he’s _safe_ in a way he hasn’t felt since _before._ In the way only dreams can, his viewpoint pans out and he sees himself there, looking different but still recognizably him, sigil and all. The most surprising piece of information he takes in, however, is that he’s snuggled safe in the arms of a very particular Principality. They're eyes are open, as if taking in the, there's no other word for it, open _affection_ of the moment. As it they're appreciating something long-earned.

Something about it feels _right_ in the worst way possible; something about it makes his chest hurt and he just wants to go back to sleep and live in that moment. Be that version of himself that's earned something so precious. So he does.

* * *

_Mesopotamia, 3004 BC_

The humans have certainly taken to procreating, that’s for sure. Crawly had been surprised when he saw the act of reproduction play out. First, it seemed awfully invasive. Then it seemed like it might well be the peak of human action if the noises made and frequency in which they engaged in it were anything to go by. Later, after the screaming, and bleeding, and fear, it seemed like maybe these wouldn’t last so long. After all, it looked like, generally, only one new one was made out of the process, and it seemed an awful lot of fuss. But, Crawly had been wrong before and ended up being wrong here. Either their need to make new little humans was something She had instilled strongly in them, or the whole act of procreation must be even better than he’d first assumed.

Later, as the humans had more by way of food and shelter and safety, he saw something new take shape. While humans had certainly always seemed fond of each other and there had always been humans that bonded closely, these humans started to take an even stronger liking to one another. Suddenly it wasn’t just procreation they sought; it was something that he could almost identify as _love_. It felt familiar, in a far-off way. He wondered if all demons could still feel the hint of it or if he had done something so awful that She’d sought to keep him in a constant state of reminder.

Regardless of the origin, Crawly became a bit obsessed with watching humans in love, with letting himself feel the diluted version he could still sense. Invariably, his mind always turned to gold fluff hair and changeable eyes and the absolute feeling of _rightness_ he got around one certain angel.

When he wasn’t wiling to bide his time on the surface, sometimes he indulged himself in a spot of fantasy. He imagined what it might be like if he were to do as the humans did. Perhaps he’d work as a fisherman, or more likely a farmer, bringing sustenance home to his partner who would work it into nourishment. Perhaps they’d nourish each other in that way.

Maybe his partner, with his fair hair and strong build, would take him into his arms and they could do that thing with the mouths ( _kissing –_ he had to remember that one; anytime he observed it his insides went a little bit liquid) and maybe then they could move onto the other things, and maybe then he could build a garden (he knew gardens quite well, after all) and show his partner and it would be _theirs_.

He knew, from early on, that he wasn’t exactly a very _good_ demon. Or at least wasn’t very good at being a demon, but these thoughts were the most certainly the most, well, _damning_. Innately, from the first one, he knew to keep a tight lid on them around his fellow denizens of Hell.

For several centuries it was fairly quiet. Crawly messed with the humans enough to keep himself in Hells better books and things went on slowly as they’re wont to do. However, there started to be rumblings that God wasn’t all that happy with how the humans had been getting on. He wandered himself to what was later known as Mesopotamia on a whim and just happened to feel that spark of angelic energy in the air It should’ve been his cue to turn tail and slither on, but the spark lacked the iciness of disdain and carried with it memories of Sun-stained curls and a soft strong hands and Crawly had been unable to ignore it for as long as he’s been kicking around on this rock.

He sees himself over to an area in front of a frankly enormous boat where several humans, animals, and an angel were watching the proceedings. He’s always been a little bit of a shit, so it wouldn’t have been on brand if he didn’t just pop up next to Aziraphale’s shoulder apropos of nothing.

“Hello Aziraphale”, he starts, peering over the angel’s shoulder to get a closer look at the action.

“Crawly.” He loathes the strained way Aziraphale says his name; it feels like a reminder. It feels like distance he desperately wishes wasn’t there. His arm feels warmer than it should but he ignores it. The angel reaches to touch his own, but Crawly doesn’t think anything of it. Why would he?

“So, giving the mortals a flaming sword, how did that work out for you?” There, two could play that game.

Aziraphale gives him an exasperated sigh, “The Almighty has never mentioned it again, so I don’t know why everyone feels the need to keep _talking about it._ ”

There’s his angel; there’s that spark.

“Again implies there was a first time, and then a second time.” He responds to which he’s met with a stare that could freeze water, even in the desert heat.

Choosing to move on instead of incurring heavenly wrath and drawing undue attention to himself, he soldiers on to change the subject.

“What’s all this then? Building a big boat to fill it with a traveling zoo?” He’d never understand what the Almighty was going for.

A small grimace passes Aziraphale’s face before he remembers to be impassive. “From what I hear, God’s a bit tetchy.” Aziraphale goes on to explain that God seems to have deemed it reasonable to wipe out the humans in this area, although not _all_ off the humans (as if that’s supposed to make it better).

Crawly feels his hackles rise as Aziraphale tries to explain and defend. This is just how She is, isn’t it? As soon as She isn’t happy with how one of Her creations thrives, She just wipes the slate clean, no worry or concern over the damage that She causes. What She leaves behind (or what she cast down).

“Not the kids, you can’t kill kids!” He finally responds when he remembers that there aren’t just fully grown humans here. Aziraphale is damningly quiet and Crawly feels rage for another reason. How could any soulmate of his be okay with this? He hates how he feels right now; tethered to Aziraphale and furious at him at the same time.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale starts before perking up forcibly, “Yes, but when it’s done, the Almighty has promised to put up a new thing called a ‘rainbow’,” an uncharacteristic pause, “as a promise not to drown everyone again.”

“How kind.” Crawly deadpans and, if he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he saw a look of doubt cross the angel’s face, but he’s sure it was a trick of the light.

He wants to leave but for some reason, he feels stuck. He doesn’t really fancy continuing to chat with Aziraphale, but something is telling him not to leave.

Then the storm starts, and he sees that stoic façade break; the angel starts looking around at all the humans with a look of thinly veiled panic. Part of the whole demonic package is feeling when beings are having negative thoughts; and tension is coming off the angel in waves that mimic the ripples in the puddles as Her creations run for shelter that won’t be enough.

Eventually, Aziraphale looks at him and he looks completely desperate. Before he knows it, he’s snapped and they’re on the boat (the Ark, he thinks he heard) in a cabin that’s quite surprised to find itself both existing in the first place and quite a bit warmer than you’d have expected.

Aziraphale looks to him and for a second, he thinks he’s going to come closer. Crawly’s heart starts beating out of his chest at the thought; would Aziraphale embrace him as a thank you for his actions? Does he feel this too?

But before the motion becomes anything definitive, the angel clears his throat, “Ah, I see they had the foresight to bring some of that lovely ale they made in town. Any interest?”

While processing the whiplash from the conversation, Crawly moves numbly to sit on a cushioned bench and is handed a mug of fragrant liquid shortly after.

One angel and one demon spend quite some time drinking in silence and ignoring the pounding rain outside. When it quiets down, he can tell Aziraphale is getting antsy.

“Shall we see what the dam-” he starts, clears his throat and begins again, “I should like to check on deck, see how they’re getting on.”

Silently, Crawly follows him, still somewhat off balance by both the alcohol in his system and the angel’s strange mood. Not to mention his residual anger at just how cruel this all is.

When they get to the top they look out over what used to be the desert and see nothing but depths; detritus and ruin and bodies floating. The sight and smell make Crawly wish he’d stayed down below. He’s about to suggest they do so when he catches sight of the angel’s face. There’s a tear streaking down his cheek and he’s gripping the rail tightly enough to warp the wood. He turns to look at Crawly and he can’t guard his face fast enough to hide the sheer _devastation_ he sees.

Strained, Aziraphale says, “I’m an angel, we’re not supposed to-, and their lives really are terribly short but-, I did grow to like them, I think.”

It’s the first time since arriving that Crawly realizes that Aziraphale may have been here for longer than an assignment. That maybe this isn’t as easy for him as Crawly is accusing in his head.

He gives a grunt of acknowledgement for lack of anything better to say. After it’s been long enough that the sun is starting to go down, he breaks the silence.

“I was thinking I might head toward South America; haven’t been there in a while.” He flicks at a piece of splintered wood. “Maybe you could come, erm, if you wanted.”

Aziraphale’s head snaps to look at him and for one second he thinks he might agree. Then, just like that, the shutters are back, and his expression is as neutral as ever.

“Best not, I think.” Crawly’s face falls. He gets the awful feeling that this may be a regular occurrence in his existence, and he _hates_ it. “They’re going to need some help to rebuild once they find land.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He stares at Aziraphale openly for a few moments, allowing himself to rememorize the details of his face.

He takes his leave a short time later, letting his wings see the light of day for the first time in many, many decades. He looks back, of course he does, and he sees the angel standing exactly where he left him.

That’s his angel, it would seem. Always a guardian.

Later when he finds himself dozing on a beach somewhere warmer and less damp, he sees the same thing in his mind’s eye that’s been haunting him since Eden; he’s wrapped up in strong arms, sleeping comfortably. This time, the angel’s eyes are on him, protecting him from the darkness trying to creep in.

* * *

_Golgotha, 33 AD_

For the last few centuries, Crawly’s been lucky. Heaven and Hell have been preoccupied since the Sodom and Gomorrah business and, for the most part, he’s been able to get by just stirring up the garden variety mischief across the continents. Recently, however, he’d heard of a lad named Jesus who was kicking up a bit of a fuss with a few friends and unsettling things in Jerusalem so he followed his demonic instincts right into his back yard.

He’d expected something different and had been, dare he say _humbled_ , by what he’d found. Jesus, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be a good guy, but oddly enough Heaven didn’t seem pleased if what he’d gathered was accurate. It was confirmed shortly after when it was clear that Jesus was going to be strung up as a cautionary tale against others.

He felt the spark of angelic energy again and was sure that he’d find the angel nearby. Said angel was exactly where Crawly would’ve expected to find him, right in the thick of it. Somehow, this angel always seemed to be in the most challenging place.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?” He opens by way of conversation. The angel gives him a quick once over before, with a sigh, explaining what he’s explained a thousand times before.

“Smirk? Me?” the angel responds impassively.

Crawly’s annoyed; again here the angel is condoning cruelty.

“Well, your lot put him there”, he grumbles.

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions Crawly.”

_Then why are you here?_ Crawly wants to ask. _Why are you always looking on as if you’re okay with it? I know you aren’t!_ He wants to shout it. He wants to force the angel to admit that he doubts before he remembers what that might cost him. Sure, Crawly’s been cast out, has dealt with that pain and abandonment (he _has_ , okay?), but he can’t bring himself to wish the same on the angel. Not to the being he loves more than anything else in creation.

“Oh, I’ve changed it.” It’s actually been quite some time since he started referring to himself as Crowley. He’d forgotten that he hasn’t seen the angel since. He tries not to think about how long he goes without interacting with him. It helps the hole in his chest feel less like a chasm.

“Changed what?” the angel responds.

“My name,” He clarifies, “Craw-ley, just wasn’t working for me. It’s a bit too, squirming-at-your-feetish.” There, that should explain it. Surely the angel will understand.

“Well, you were a snake.” He snaps back. It hurts a little. _Yes_ , he gets it. He is the serpent of Eden, and he does make such a lovely snake, but the human form is much more useful and, he needs to be something else. He’s always needed that, he thinks.

“What is it now?” the angel asks, “Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?” Crowley tries his best not to think about the fact that Aziraphale invoked names of demons associated with power and intelligence and _lust_ , and _what the bloody hell does that mean?_

Instead of saying any of that, he just responds simply. “Crowley.”

The angel looks at him and, for a moment, looks like he might smile. “Hmm” is all he responds.

They talk a little bit more. He finds out that Aziraphale met Jesus too and thought him bright and kind. Crowley tells him about taking him around to other Kingdoms, showing him the world beyond his back yard.

He ignores it when he thinks the angel just might be mirroring his contented stare.

“What did he say that’s got everyone so upset? He finally says. He doesn’t get it, even an angel of the lord thought he was a good chap.

“Be kind to each other.” The angel looks a bit despondent for a second.

“Oh yeah, that’ll do it.” Because he knows, more so than most, that those kinds of ideas don’t always appeal to upstairs.

They don’t say much more, and eventually Aziraphale takes his leave and Crowley goes back into town. Perhaps it’s time for a change of scenery.

One angel moves back toward the village feeling the eyes of one demon boring into his back. He can’t figure out why that feels both strange and enticing at the same time.

The dream is different the next time he succumbs to sleep. This time, he’s holding Aziraphale so tightly it looks like it's bordering on painful. The look of pain etched into the lines on the angel’s face haunts him for days after.

* * *

_Rome, 41 AD_

It’s been an absolutely, no good, rotten day. Crowley _loathes_ Rome and Caligula and all of the awful things that happen here. Sure, his presence has made him a rousing success downstairs, but it makes him sick which just further reminds him how rubbish a demon he is and _Christ_ he just wants to sleep for about a century.

He doesn’t mean to be rude, but he doesn’t have time or patience for pleasantries. “Give me a jug of whatever is drinkable.” He grunts out to the woman behind the counter. He doesn’t know what he looks like, but it can’t be good as her once-over of him was dubious at best. Likely, he should make this quick, but his life is rarely convenient in that way.

“Crawly-, Crowley?” He hears and, _of course_. Why would the universe allow him a bit of rest? Of course, he has the energy for his heartrate to skyrocket and for his body to be shot through with inappropriate warmth.

“Fancy running into you here. Still a demon then?”

Fuck, really? “What kind of stupid question is that? ‘Still a demon?’ What else am I going to be, an aardvark?” It’s a testament to his bad mood that not even the angel’s presence is making him feel better. It’s also a testament to how he feels about Aziraphale that he doesn’t miracle a crack in the angel’s mug and plan his escape.

“In Rome long?” the angel asks amicably.

“Just popped in for a quick temptation. You?” And that’s really, _really_ all he has to say on the topic. He will not be discussing the details of this temptation thank you very much.

“Oh I thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant. I hear he does amazing things with oysters.” This might be the most casual the angel has ever been with him. The black cloud surrounding him thins slightly.

“I’ve never eaten an oyster.” He says honestly. He’s never really been one for food. Drink, most definitely, but food isn’t his poison.

“Oh! Oh, well let me tempt you-” the angel starts and cuts himself off at the quick turn of Crowley’s head. “Oh no. No, that’s your job isn’t it?” All of a sudden Crowley is terrified that the angel is going to leave. This is the closest he’s gotten to, well, _something_ and he isn’t ready for it to end yet.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t _be_ tempted. Let’s go try some oysters.” He hops off the stool and the angel beams at him.

They walk to the restaurant, chatting amiably about how the area has changed while Crowley artfully avoids talking about anything _he’s_ been doing or seeing. When they arrive, they’re brought to a lovely table in the back, away from the main area where it’s quiet. They’re plied with a jug of wine that’s much, _much_ preferable to the house brown, not least because it’s poured for him by Aziraphale.

When the waiter comes by, Aziraphale looks briefly to Crowley who nods and the angel orders for them both.

The oysters themselves, when they come, are underwhelming to Crowley. Aziraphale, however, is quite taken with the slimy buggers, and exudes enthusiasm over the lemon and salt ratio to bring out the flavor in each.

“Crowley, are you sure you don’t want more? They’re delightful and I fear I’m eating more than my fair share.” The angel actually _blushes_ and looks a bit shy and that’s doing wild things to Crowley. Especially because, as much as Aziraphale is correct that he’s eaten roughly 80% of the oysters, Crowley’s had just about 70% of the wine he’s feeling quite fine, really.

“I’m not much for food honestly.” Which has the benefit of being true while not saying, _And even if I was, I’d give it up to watch you keep tilting you head back like that so I can see your lovely throat,_ which is what Crowley’s thinking rather loudly.

“I was thinking I may get another order, are you in a rush?” the angel responds. It’s ludicrous to think that Crowley could want to do anything else at all.

“So long as we get another jug of wine.” And Aziraphale beams, and puts the order in. It’s only the beginning.

It’s an indeterminable amount of time later and they’re very nearly collapsed against each other in the back of the restaurant.

“And-, and, I said to them, ‘Well what do you know abo, about anything anyway!’”, a small drop of wine drips from the mug onto the table as the angel makes a sweeping gesture. He’s talking about some interaction with the archangels that’s had Crowley’s laughing breathless for the better part of the last hour.

“You did _not_ say that to Gabriel!” He responds.

“Well, maybe not _out loud_ , but I was certainly thinking it!” the angel nearly yells and Crowley _loves_ him. He loves him buttoned up and fighting his instincts to be a better kind of Good. He loves him drunk and loose and leaning into him and he’s so _warm_ and his eyes are so lovely. Crowley’s day has gotten so much better.

He goes to put his cup down on the corner of the table, nearly misses, and finds his hand has fallen onto Aziraphale’s ankle. His _bare_ ankle. This is the first time they’ve touched skin to skin, a sober part of his mind recalls (the part that isn’t screaming “Yes, finally, yes please touch him more!”), and he can’t even imagine giving it up. Aziraphale turns to look at him and realizes, quickly, how close they are.

He doesn’t know if it’s the wine or their proximity, but the angel’s eyes are dilated and his breathing much quicker than he was a second ago.

Crowley holds his stare with Aziraphale’s over the top of his lenses and makes a bold drunken decision to up the ante. Slowly, he starts to move his thumb back and forth over the smooth skin and he hears the angel’s breath hitch and speed up.

The arm that was around his back starts to move up until the angel’s hand is resting on this upper back, between his shoulders, pinky finger just brushing the skin above his tunic. It sends liquid heat down his spine and he breaths in sharply and leans back into the touch. That spot on his arm he tries so hard to ignore is shooting the sweetest heat through his body. He wants the angel to rest his hand there. He wants to be that connected.

_Bad move_. That was all it took for the blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks to move from honeyed to flaming red and for him to start to pull back.

“No-, you don’t ha-, _we_ don’t have to-,” he starts to say, _beg_ really, because he can’t lose this just yet, he _can’t,_ before the angel cuts him off.

“Well, I think perhaps I’ve overindulged for the day. So sorry to have kept you from your, well, whatever it was I’m sure you need to be getting on with.” Aziraphale moves the cups to the middle of the table and quickly stands.

"Angel, ngk, you don't have to go, we can-", he trails off. It's clear that Aziraphale has made up his mind to love on for the evening. Crowley does his level best to swallow his disappointment.

Oddly, Aziraphale looks like he wants to offer Crowley a hand up but then thinks better of it. He presses his hand to his bicep in a move that looks protective but might be something more. Crowley can’t focus on it through the rage of panic at losing the closeness he _just_ got.

He gives Crowley a half smile that just might be tinged with regret, then simply says, “Do take care of yourself, my dear.” Before heading out of the restaurant leaving one demon feeling warm and cold in equal turn, and so very, very lonely. His eyes burn with the sting of tears and his mark burns with them.

Crowley decides to get very, very drunk. Maybe if he gets drunk enough, he won’t have to remember this whole exchange; won’t need to remember what it’s like to have something he wants and lose it again. Honestly, hasn’t he had enough of that for his eternal lifetime? He orders more and more jugs of wine, the waiter’s concern getting more and more obvious, and is eventually asked to leave the establishment. He thinks about coaxing the waiter into allowing him to stay, but he thinks he may want to leave. His villa suddenly seems much more inviting. How he navigates his way home (what a ridiculous concept, _home_ , for someone who’s lived here since the beginning) is nothing short of a demonic miracle and he’s unconscious as soon as he lays down.

This time, the dream takes on new life. He’s not calmly asleep in Aziraphale’s arms, or vice versa. Instead, they’re connected at the mouth, moving against each other. He can hear the angel panting against his mouth, letting out small moans and mewls as he moves in Crowley’s body. There’s a warmth emanating from his arm and something about that seems significant. There’s also something he keeps staring at on the angel’s arm; something that seems significant, but he just can’t see it. There’s too much _else_ to focus on. He can feel something happening, the ghost of something incredible, but then the angel opens his eyes. His face turns from heat and lust and another “L” word that he doesn’t want to even think about to abject _horror_ in seconds. Crowley wakes with a start. He’s never hated himself more.


	2. We're Two Slow Dancers, Last Ones Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he thought it'd get easier after Rome, Crowley was kidding himself.
> 
> Chapter title from "Two Slow Dancers" by Mitski

_The Next Several Centuries_

Crowley had left Petronius’ restaurant feeling drunk, certainly, but also torn in a way he hadn’t since he first found himself in Eden. He was used to the feeling of unrequited loneliness that typically followed his meetings with Aziraphale, but this was the first time that he thought there might be a chance for something _more_. What shape that would be, he was unsure, but he knew what he saw in the angel’s eyes and it was much closer to a reflection of his own feelings than he was prepared for. The love he felt still burned bright in his chest, but now there was a shadow as well. He’d never thought that angel would return his feelings, or even recognize them, but to be regretted that way? It was worse than a complete lack of acknowledgement.

He _knew_ Aziraphale felt something there. They had been so close, mere seconds from maybe something that would have seemed an awful lot like an embrace, or perhaps a kiss if Crowley were a luckier demon than he thought. If nothing else, it was the first time he’d had an unburdened, _happy_ Aziraphale talking to him and drunkenly listing into his side. Call him weak, but he was addicted from the first hit. But Aziraphale had fled so quickly, had seemed so _ashamed_ of himself that Crowley needed time to face him again. He couldn’t be that to Aziraphale. Crowley needed enough space to ensure that he wouldn’t just fall to pieces if the angel met him with strained indifference again, he needed enough space to bring up the walls he’d let come down.

The dreams hadn’t made it easier. The first was the hardest to cope with, but now it was almost constant. Sleep was something that Crowley had come to take comfort in, but most nights he gambled between whether it’d be a false feeling of safety and security or a false feeling of being wanted until he categorically _wasn’t._ It was worse than a number of tortures he’d suffered at the hands of his employers.

When it came down to it, Crowley was many things, but a masochist typically wasn’t one of them. Sure he threw a fair few pity parties here and there, but overall, he was, regrettably, an optimist. Unfortunately, Crowley was also not perfect and not particularly able to ignore his questioning nature. Sometimes, those questions came about when he ran into the same angelic essence over and over and over again. What are the odds that they would, of the own accord, keep heading to the same places around the world at the same time? By the third or fourth decade in a row of “chance” meetings, he thinks he’d identified the problem. Heaven and Hell, while not lacking in resources, did lack in creativity quite a bit. So, when one got rumblings that something was happening on Earth, they’d send for their terra-bound emissary to take a look. The problem was, they couldn’t seem to figure out that what one side did, the other tended to undo. Essentially, he and Aziraphale were sent on the same assignments by their respective offices, not knowing that it’d quite literally render the mission null and void.

Despite some initial awkwardness, they do find a new stride. Unsurprisingly, it tends to revolve around drinking. It goes like this; Crowley gets his marching orders to go to some corner of the Earth to sow discontent, he arrives to find the angel either already there or accompanying him in short order, they finish their useless work and find themselves in some rundown pub or inn drinking whatever the locals have on offer until they’re pink-cheeked and laughing.

Crowley loves it as much as he hates it, honestly.

He brings it up for the first time around 300 AD. They’re trashed on some terrible local wine that they had to drink an entire jug of just to make it drinkable and they’re approaching Petronian levels of amiability. Of course it couldn’t stay that way.

“D’ya know that we’re not doin’ anything here?” he slurs out almost into the angel’s shoulder.

“What d’you mean?” the angel responds, titling his head to the side in a move that Crowley is desperately trying not to find endearing.

“Well, yeehh, you do your little,” he makes a hand gesture that is supposed to be a snap but looks more like something that’ll eventually be called “jazz hands”, “miracles and whatnot m’just canceling it out with my, y’know?”

“That’s presto-, preposterout, _preposterous!_ ” the angel exclaims. It’s loud enough to draw the eyes of a few other patrons that look the other way after getting a glimpse over Crowley’s glasses. “Good’ll always conquer evil. S’a fact.”

That stings slightly somewhere in his consciousness. Or it would if he was anywhere near sober enough to _find_ his consciousness.

“We could work together.” And there it is. The awful, horrible idea that’s taken up residence in his mind. He’s sober in an instant.

Taking the hint that the conversation has taken on a more serious tone, the angel purges the liquor from his system.

“What do you mean ‘ _work together’_?” the angel responds, an air of incredulousness lacing his tone.

“I mean, we could, well, split the work? You take some things and I take some things and then we could, or at least one of us could, ngk, do other things.” _Well said_ , he thinks.

“That’s ridiculous Crowley! You’re a demon, I’m an angel, _we’re on opposite sides._ ” He’s breathing roughly. Bad move, Crowley thinks, _very bad move_.

“Why not, angel? We’re just canceling each other out.” He’s frustrated. He didn’t think it’d be received with open arms, but he thought he’d be met with more than _opposite sides_ as a reason. As if he were on anyone’s side other than Aziraphale’s since the dawn of life on Earth.

“It would never be allowed and only God knows what would happen to _you_. The answer is no, absolutely not. I won’t allow it.” The angel gives him one last intense look, primly disembarks from his stool. “I can’t let that happen to-,” the angel sighs and breaks eye contact. “I can’t let that happen.” With one last look, that may have been _longing_ but that’s probably wishful thinking from a heartbroken demon, Aziraphale makes his exit.

The keeper takes one look at him and plies him with another glass. He might as well, considering how _that_ went over.

That night, he has the original dream again; it’s just he and Aziraphale wrapped safe in each other’s arms. At one point, dream Crowley opens his eyes and meets dream Aziraphale’s. Dream Aziraphale stares back with an intense look that says far more than “hear me”. It says, “I see you”. Crowley doesn’t sleep for a long time after that.

He spends the next several centuries trying to convince Aziraphale that they’re far more alike and different; he doesn’t agree. Sometimes they let it go, sometimes they laugh it off, sometimes they have a screaming row that leaves both feeling unmoored.

After a particularly convincing pitch in 537 AD, Aziraphale agrees to hear him out.

By 1601, they’ve established a “you wash my back, and I’ll wash yours” accord, under the guise of an _Arrangement_ , that rivals the best of them.

Sure, Crowley uses a trick coin sometimes so the angel will go to the damper and more boring of places to bless and tempt, but he always makes sure that there’s a warm lodge and plentiful alcohol available on return. There’s also, sometimes, a very famous play by a very famous playwright that has become certainly quite famous indeed despite its rather meager beginnings. When these things happen, many times the result is a very grateful, very smile-y and sunshine-y angel that Crowley can’t quite move his serpent’s eyes from.

Regardless of Crowley’s persistent heart, it works, or some semblance of it. Further, it guarantees that Crowley gets to keep seeing Aziraphale, which by the time they’d done at least one job for the other has become Crowley’s main goal. A way to keep himself in Aziraphale’s orbit, lest he be ousted by the written word or, Hell forbid it, _food_. By the early 1700’s they’re damn near _friends_ even. It’s more than Crowley ever thought he’d get.

Every now and again when demonic work gets the best of Crowley (like in Rome, like during the Spanish Inquisition), Aziraphale is there to either drink the cares away or pull Crowley out of a downward spiral, respectively, and Crowley has a preternatural sense for when the angel has gotten himself into another absolutely barmy situation that he hasn’t figured his way out of.

It’s exactly these kinds of situations that end with Aziraphale locked in the Bastille and Crowley getting to play the brave hero by sweeping in with his long coat and _very_ fashionable hair (no matter what Aziraphale says about it).

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.” He’d said lounging back like the conquering hero.

“ _Crowley”_ , oh he’d loved how Aziraphale said his name there. Committed it to memory immediately.

He’d also clocked Aziraphale’s _very_ obvious elevator eyes before his “ _Oh good lord”_ that seemed more performative than anything else. He’d _hoped_ it was performative. Regardless, Aziraphale bought him crepes so all really was well in the end.

It’s not just Crowley that enjoys some of these hijinks, however. Aziraphale didn’t _need_ to dress himself up like an actual fainting heroine to pop across the channel for some nibbles (although Crowley is so glad he did, those shoes and stockings will feature in _several_ dreams for _several_ centuries thereafter).

Sometimes Crowley wonders if the angel thinks of him that way, like a hero (he so _does_ want to be seen that way; he wants to be _everything_ to Aziraphale so badly). It’s a quickly banished thought for the sake of Crowley’s dwindling sanity, but sometimes, he thinks about it anyway (as a treat).

In his dreams, sometimes they just hold hands. He wonders if the reality of them is as soft as they are in his head. He doubts he’ll ever find out.

* * *

_St. James’s Park, 1862_

They’ve fought before. Perhaps that’s a misnomer. They’ve _disagreed_ before. They’ve surely _bickered_ before; hell, that’s half of their communication strategy. But this may well be the first time they’ve ever actually been in a fight worthy of radio silence.

“ _Fraternizing?”_ Is _that_ what Aziraphale thought they were doing? Bloody _fraternizing?_

“Well, whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.” Crowley is _furious_ and can’t get past boiling down his unending _fucking_ devotion to _fraternizing._

It hurts, worse again than he thought. Each time Aziraphale dismisses him it hurts more. “I have lots of other people to _fraternize_ with, angel.” He snarls.

“Of course you do.” The angel snarks and runs his hand over his upper arm as if to soothe himself.

“I don’t need you.” _Lie._

Hurt flashes across the angel’s face so quickly that Crowley almost misses it; would have if he had not been trying to inflict it and waiting for the subsequent response. It feels hollow. He wants to reach out and reassure him so badly; remind him that there’s nothing that he could do to make Crowley feel differently about him. Aziraphale may have forgotten what they are to each other (what they _were_ , what they should have been, what they never would be because of Crowley’s ridiculous _questions_ ), but Crowley never would. He doesn’t. Pride doesn’t get the designation as a deadly sin for nothing.

Aziraphale, ever guarded, shutters his open expression immediately. “Well, the feeling is mutual. _Obviously._ ”

He storms off in a huff that would’ve been cute if Crowley wasn’t devastated and righteously angry in equal turn.

How dare his friend dismiss his reasonable request for protection? After everything he’s done for him? How dare the angel insinuate that they were _less_ than they were to each other. He _knew_ Aziraphale felt something for him; it might not be undying love but it was surely something more than convenience.

Maybe he was wrong.

He sleeps for so long that his dreams take on a lifelike quality. They go from sleeping to waking to fucking to bloody _cuddling_ cyclically while he slumbers. There are breakfasts and lunches and dinner where he just stares across the table at those lovely angelic features. Sometimes he touches them too. It’s the sweetest torture he’s ever experienced. He doesn’t want to wake up, but eventually he does. It takes him some time to recalibrate, to stop wishing to live in his dream world instead.

It isn’t until much, much later (approximately 60 years later) that he realizes that he saw something else in Aziraphale’s face that day. Fear.

Fear of getting caught? Maybe. Fear that something may happen to Crowley ( _“It would **destroy** you”_, his voice had almost broken, hadn’t it)? More likely than he once thought.

It’ll be another 19 years before he has a chance to repay the favor, to get anything close to a reconciliation.

* * *

_London, 1941_

He’s about to break into a lovely bottle of scotch when something makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. He puts the bottle down and sighs; it really had the potential to be a lovely evening.

It’s been happening almost since the beginning. Not only does he have a general sense of where the angel is at any given time should he want to find out, but he also has a pinpoint accurate sense of when he’s bollocksed something up bad enough to need a knight in gleaming black to rescue his sorry arse from discorporation or worse. He takes a second to kid himself that he’s going to sit there and enjoy his very good liquor and not break an almost century-long silence in the name of being Aziraphale’s something before he lets out a growl (more like a petulant a whine, but he’ll never admit it), grabs the keys to his lovely new Bentley and follows the trail of angelic essence straight to the source.

The source, because Crowley’s life is one big punchline after another, is a bloody _church_. Of course, the angel would have to make this as embarrassing as possible for Crowley in his hour of need. Fucking stupid, lovely, pain-in-the-arse angel.

When he steps in, the whole scene is a bastardization of his most horrifying fantasy. The angel is standing at the altar, but instead of roses and rings and a myriad of other ridiculous human customs that Crowley certainly hasn’t _fantasized about_ , with quite a few nefarious looking characters that Crowley really couldn’t care less about. What he cares about most is that they’re pointing something as frivolous as a gun at the angel and really, they should know better.

“You can’t kill me, there’ll be paperwork!” _Christ_ , this angel is going to be the death of him.

He also underestimated how consecrated ground would feel. It had been some time, after all. He’d never admit it, but his usual saunter and sway is a bit more of a hop, skip, and jump medley as he creeps his way toward the angel. Annoyed as he is, it’s beyond good to see him. The candlelight in the church brings out that angelic glow in his eyes, lights his hair up in gold, and makes Crowley ache somewhere deep.

Luckily, he has the distraction of whatever cockamamy plan the angel cooked up to get himself mixed up with actual Nazi’s. He’s gasping his way down the aisle (don’t think about it, don’t think about it, _don’t you dare think about it_ ), the angel turns to him with a look of relief that, unfortunately, turns to suspicion far too quickly for Crowley’s liking.

“What are _you_ doing here?” He accuses.

“Stopping you getting into trouble.” He shoots a pointed look through his glasses that he thinks lands anyway.

“I should have known. Of _course_. These people are working for you!” Aziraphale accuses.

Crowley shouldn’t be surprised, he really shouldn’t. He should have stopped hoping a long time ago that Aziraphale would ever see him as more than his adversary, more than a _demon_ , but his pitiful, hopeful heart is just fixated on optimism and it’ll continue to chap his bottom until the end of his very long life.

“ _No_ , they’re a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around London, blackmailing and murdering people. _I_ just didn’t want to see you embarrassed.” He feels a hint of pride that Aziraphale looks apologetic for a moment.

The woman wearing a frankly appalling hat turns to him, purrs his name and some drivel about him living up to his name, to which he pays almost no mind other than to tip his hat. Image is everything, after all.

“Anthony?” Aziraphale asks. Damnit, he knew he forgot something. Fuck, it’d taken the angel an age and a half to remember his name the last time he changed it.

“You don’t like it?” He meant to say something snarky but as it turns out his mouth actually functions independently of his brain. Perhaps another demonic quirk to make his eternity just slightly less comfortable.

“No, no, I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.” They’re looking at each other and Crowley both wants to look away and drown in those eyes. The humans are still talking, potentially threatening them, which is an annoyance but nothing he can’t ignore, when Aziraphale speaks again.

“What does the ‘J’ stand for?” Ugh, he should’ve thought this through more.

“Erm, eh s’just a ‘J’ really.” Which is, regrettably, the truth. He would’ve hoped that under pressure he would’ve come up with something stunningly clever, but his feet are on _fire_ and it really is taking quite a lot of his demonic energy to pull this whole thing together.

He looks to the side and, to add insult to injury, there’s a basin just chock full o’holy water. Just sitting there! He says as much to which Aziraphale takes a moment from being generally overwhelmed by many things happening at once to give him a withering stare that’d make even his most robust plants shrivel.

The humans extend their last threat and, there it is, _showtime._

“In about a minute a German bomber will release a bomb that’ll land right here.” He gestures around them to be sure that these dimwits understand what he’s saying. “If you all run away very fast, you might not die. You won’t enjoy dying, definitely won’t enjoy what comes after.” He can guarantee that last bit. Whether they meet their end here or somewhere else, there’s a very good chance they’ll meet again on his home turf. That’s what you get for threatening _his_ angel.

“You expect us to believe that?” One of the repugnant lot sneers. “The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Amateurs. He turns to Aziraphale and looks at him over his glasses. “Yes. It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes.” He winks, he can’t help it. Turning back to the Nazi’s who are looking quite a bit less comfortable than they had moments ago, he continues. “You’re all wasting your valuable running away time,” he turns back to Aziraphale, “And if, in seconds, a bomb does land here it would take a _real miracle_ for my friend and I to survive it.”

Ah, there it is. The spark of recognition. They could be so _good_ together (in more than a few ways, Crowley’s sure of it) if Aziraphale would just let it happen.

“Ah, a real miracle?” Aziraphale nods. Crowley trusts him.

The tall Nazi with the unfortunate hairline says, “Kill them, they’re very irritating.” Seconds later there’s the sound of a plan and a bomb descending and then it’s explosion and fire and Crowley checking the state of his nails while he waits for the worst to pass.

When the dust clears, he and Aziraphale are standing in the rubble of the bombed-out church surrounded by detritus and dead Nazi’s. There’s a look on Aziraphale’s face that Crowley can’t work out. It almost seems like _Aziraphale_ hasn’t quite worked it out, but fuck knows what any of _that_ means.

“That was very kind of you.” It throws Crowley off for a second.

“Shut up.” He can’t just say things like that out here in the open after demonic miracles and angelic miracles and beautiful angelic eyes doing _things_ to Crowley’s insides.

“Well it was. No paperwork for a start,” Aziraphale has been looking around and Crowley knows what he’s looking for seconds before Aziraphale does, “Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot all about the books! Oh, they’ll be blown to-.”

Crowley is prying a leather satchel full of priceless tomes of prophecy a dead Nazi and handing them to Aziraphale within ten seconds.

“Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?” He can’t stand to see the reaction on Aziraphale’s face. He can’t stand for Aziraphale to see the look on his own. There’s too much there.

After a few seconds he hears Aziraphale start to move after him, remarkably unsteady. Maybe Crowley should have checked to make sure he wasn’t injured. His demonic energy had never hurt the angel before, but he’d also never be smack dab in the middle of a burst of it.

When he turns around Aziraphale is starting at him with the strangest look in his eyes and, if Crowley were less aware of their differences, he’d say it was something like admiration. But that’s just his damned hopeful heart running amok.

“Is this your vehicle?” Aziraphale asks. His voice is soft. Crowley loves it like this.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he runs a hand along the bonnet before jumping in and behind the wheel. Aziraphale follows and situates himself in the passenger seat with the satchel of books between his feet. He looks so _right_ there and there’s that bloody ache again that Crowley’s getting really bloody sick of.

“Yes. Quite lovely.” There’s a quality to the way Aziraphale says it that makes Crowley’s heart speed up. Had he been less distracted by pretending not to see distracted by having Aziraphale in his car, he’d have noticed that the angel wasn’t looking at this Bentley, but rather at _him_.

The drive to the bookshop is slow and quiet, but when they get there Aziraphale doesn’t rush to get out. He’s staring forward and gripping his hands on his knees in a way that is surely hurting. He’s going to speak up, but the angel beats him to it.

“Oh! Your poor feet! Goodness Crowley that was rash. They must be burnt to a crisp! Come inside, let me take a look.”

Crowley almost swallows his tongue in his haste to make an excuse. He _can’t_. Not right now when his feelings are so close to the surface his skin might as well be transparent, but his bloody corporation is going to keep moving right along without his input, because he’s out of the car and hobbling along after Aziraphale immediately.

“Oh Crowley, honestly.” The angel admonishes before he wraps his arm around Crowley’s back and helps him into the shop’s back room and onto the squashy couch that Crowley hadn’t crashed on for quite some time. He doesn’t think about the angel’s intake of breath when he’d wrapped his arm around him or about the fact that the couch still molds to him perfectly, as if no one had occupied this space since he last had. It’s fanciful at best and desperate at worst, but there’s Crowley’s brain for you.

He realizes that Aziraphale is not sitting in his chair as expected, but rather is banging about in the kitchenette in the back only moments before he returns to Crowley’s field of vision with a warm soaking bucket and some crisp white cloths.

“Angel, what are you-” he starts before Aziraphale looks at him, kneels, and begins unlacing Crowley’s shoes.

“Make yourself comfortable, my dear. I just need to make sure that nothing needs tending to.”

Crowley takes off his glasses, less as a measure to make himself comfortable (because it makes him feel vulnerable) and more to make sure he’s actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

“Angel-, _Aziraphale_ , you don’t have to-, I’m a demon! They’ll heal. I’ll be fine.” He stammers.

“ _Nonsense._ It’s the least I could do, and I won’t hear another word about it.” With that, Aziraphale gently peels down his sock and, _okay_ , that does smart a bit.

Aziraphale takes his feet, once de-socked, and gently places them in the basin. The water is pleasantly warm and doesn’t sting, which feels perhaps a bit too convenient not to have included some angelic interference, but he’s afraid to speak up because the angel’s hand is still on Crowley’s ankle.

His thumb is moving back and forth over the bone, grazing his achilles, slowly in a mind-bending mirror of the last time they touched skin-to-skin in Rome. It’s quiet in the shop but the tension is screaming at Crowley and he doesn’t know what to do, only that his whole body is warm, and he wants Aziraphale to put his hands _all over_ him and he wants his hands all over Aziraphale in a way that makes him feel parched, absolutely _desperate_.

“You challenge me.” The angel whispers and looks up at Crowley with the most heartbreakingly open expression he’s ever seen, bar-none.

“Angel, I-,” Aziraphale stops him by holding up the hand that isn’t currently driving Crowley’s blood pressure to heights even demons haven’t seen yet. The angel breaks eye contact, only to press his forehead to one of Crowley’s knobby knees for a tense moment before looking up.

“And I’ve missed you _terribly_.” It’s a statement that brooks no argument and leaves no opening for misinterpretation or response. He wasn’t seeking reciprocation from Crowley, just stating a fact like that information, and the speaking of it, won’t rend Crowley’s entire understanding of his world to its shaky knees.

Aziraphale takes his left foot out of the basin, slowly dries it, and wraps it in a clean, warm cloth, then follows the process with his right. They feel marvelous, they’re already healing. He won’t even feel anything by tomorrow morning and that makes him panic more than anything else. Without that, how will he prove that this even _happened_?

He clears his throat, “Got any libations, angel? I could do with a nightcap.”

“With a nightc-, oh! Yes, certainly. White or red?” Aziraphale asks, as if it’s even a question. Crowley raises one impeccable eyebrow before Aziraphale huffs, smiles, and brings out a startingly fragrant Chateau Lafite Rothschild. They drink the entire bottle and catch up until there’s nothing new to go over, and then they talk absolute shite until it’s late in the morning.

He’s about to see if he can tempt Aziraphale into a spot of breakfast when the angel realizes just how long it’s been.

“Oh, dear I have gone on. Oh, and look at that, it’s far past when I should’ve opened.” He’s wringing his lovely hands and spouting the most ridiculous excuse he can. _Honestly_ , as if Aziraphale is ever in a rage to actually _open_ his shop. That’s Crowley’s sign to go, then. Must be. _Christ, he doesn’t want to go._

“Yeugh, erm, yeah. I should be getting on.” He says, even though it sounds weak even to him. “Wiles, to, er, wile. It’s been, uh, good to catch up, angel.”

“It has. Do take care of yourself, dear boy.” Aziraphale is looking right at him, another call back to that evening in Rome.

Crowley makes his way out of the bookshop before he does something dumb like beg for an explanation or the angel’s hands on him or confesses his undying love and the fact that they were once destined to complete each other in a way no other creature would.

He takes the long way back to Mayfair so that he can drive by the church because he wants to see it in the light of day and is a glutton for punishment. He sees the eagle lectern from the night before, once cast in pure white marble, now grey with dust and rubble and soot. With a snap of demonic energy, it rehomes itself to an alcove in his flat. He doesn’t want to look at it just now, but he thinks the needs something to remind him that the night occurred.

When he arrives home, he pours a little water into the little ivy vine he keeps on his desk. He isn’t sure why he likes the damn thing so much, but it’s stuck around with him for longer than it should have. Something about that seems almost poetic.

When he falls asleep, he’s almost immediately dreaming. This time, he dreams Aziraphale like he’s posting for a painting; the perfect Rubenesque angel. But this time, he’s wrapped in ivy leaves, the end curling around his arm in a way that makes Crowley’s entire body reach out towards him. Something about it calls to him, seems like it’s waiting for an answer, pulling tighter and tighter until it feels fragile and thin and about to snap. Crowley wakes before it does, feeling lighter somehow, but also like he’s missing something that’s right in front of him.

Maybe they both are.

* * *

_Soho_ , _1967_

Crowley had thought, perhaps, that they may make an effort to see each other more often after that night. Again, he finds his optimism kicking him directly in the shins. It anything, it seems like Aziraphale is even _less_ inclined to spend time with him. Their meetings are brief and perfunctory, with Crowley unable to even engage the angel in a bit of light bickering. It’s all rather disheartening and it’s left Crowley desperate and impulsive in a way he hasn’t been for some centuries now.

First, he takes up sleeping regularly. Terribly human, he knows, but while he sleeps, he gets to experience glimpses of a life with Aziraphale and it hurts, much, much less than it does to think about that while awake.

When he sleeps, he imagines them in a variety of situations but each one feels _right_. Like a comfort and a balm to his frayed nerves. His chest hurts when he wakes, but it’s worth it for the little bit of respite he feels during.

He does understand, however, the angel’s reticence to drag their _acquaintanceship_ out into the open. Hell has been more hands-on lately, and it’s put him on edge. This is _exactly_ why he’d asked about the holy water in the first place, regardless of what Aziraphale thinks. He just needs a fall back plan, something to count on if it all goes tits up. But he gets it, he really does. Aziraphale would be taking a huge risk in providing him with a proverbial get out of jail free card and the angel has always been cautious. Never mind that Crowley would’ve done it for him. Never mind that Crowley would willingly suffer bodily harm up-to-and-including his own death (not discorporation, actual _death_ ) if Aziraphale needed it. If the angel says he can’t do it, Crowley will find another way. Very resourceful, him.

He does what any self-respecting demon would do and finds a way to plan a little heist that’ll sew some general discontent he can write home about, while also providing him with what he needs for peace of mind.

It’s going to be a few hours before he has to meet the team in Soho, and he decides to take a little snooze for fortitude. He’s asleep as soon as he closes his eyes, and his mind starts editorializing almost as quick. In one blink, it’s 1967 and he’s in his bedroom surrounded by black silk sheets. The next, he’s on that same squashy couch in a bookshop in Soho, with an angel on his knees before him.

He recognizes every aspect, the smell of lavender from whatever Aziraphale had put into the water, like bergamot and linen, and red wine and ozone that’s all Aziraphale himself. He feels the soft sweep of a thumb on his ankle and is drowning in the soft look from sea slate eyes.

“And I’ve missed you, _terribly_.” The angel says. Dream Crowley does what real Crowley didn’t have the wherewithal to and reaches out to cup a honey-flushed cheek.

“Me too, angel. You don’t know how much.” He responds, his voice low and sincere in the quiet of the evening. Those eyes lock on his, and Dream Crowley licks his lips, which Dream Aziraphale watches intently.

He’s had this dream before, oh, about a thousand times since that night. This is always where it takes a turn, where his dream self gets the opportunity that Crowley never took in real life.

“Crowley, _please._ ” Dream Aziraphale says and that’s all Dream Crowley needs to drag the angel up and meet him at the lips. It’s electric every time Crowley dreams it. Their lips connect and it’s heat and warmth and electricity and he never wants to be disconnected from Aziraphale again. Their bodies press tightly together, and he can feel the soft, worn material of his bow tie fall apart in his hand when he tugs. He mouths down that soft neck and, at Dream Aziraphale’s broken groan, bites down to elicit a much louder, much more urgent noise from his partner. Next thing he knows, those lovely, plump hands are pushing at this shirt, untucking it, so that they can run up along the skin on his sides and he’s moaning into Dream Aziraphale’s shoulder. He tangles one hand in that ice blond hair to redirect their mouths to each other, but the scenery starts to change. He can hear Dream Aziraphale calling out for him, but his tone changes from wanting to panic quickly. That look of heat and love is replaced by shock and horror, not unlike the look he’d dreamed after Rome, and his heart is pounding and he’s reaching out only to find himself sitting straight up in his bed, in his empty flat in Mayfair, tangled among his sheets and sweating.

 _Fuck_. That dream is bad enough when it ends in tangled limbs and mutual peaks, never mind when his psyche deals him a critical hit of shame and disdain.

It’s regrettable, but it isn’t the first time. After allowing himself a moment of self-pity, he dresses to the nines and heads out to Soho, ignoring that his whole body is hyper-attuned to a certain bookshop.

The meeting goes as most clandestine meetings do; everyone feeling quite cool and quite mysterious and quiet high on themselves. It’s invigorating to Crowley’s inner demon as he senses the pride, hubris, and greed flowing freely throughout the room. There’s one oddball, that Shadwell fellow, but criminals can’t be choosy and while Crowley doesn’t consider himself a criminal _per se_ , he’s certainly not in a position to be overly picky about the human clientele willing to bend the rules. Overall, he leaves feeling confident and ready to move onto the next step.

When he hits the sidewalk heading toward the Bentley, there’s a restless feeling under his skin and he looks around consideringly. He’s in Soho, which typically means that he’s going to try to goad the angel into a rambling drunken night, but he doesn’t think he could handle that right now. He’s feeling some kind of way and he doesn’t trust himself with Aziraphale right now. He settles on taking a ride with the intent of pushing the Bentley’s speedometer to it’s very limits, but as soon as he’s settled behind the wheel, the weight of the air around him changes and suddenly it’s thick with something that Crowley finds almost as comforting as it is surprising.

Before he can think better of it, he’s said “What are you doing here?” just at the same time as the angel had said “I need a word with you.”

The angel levels a withering look at him for the five millionth time in their storied history and carries on.

“I live in Soho, I hear things.”, he takes a pause to give Crowley another appraisal, “I hear your setting up a..caper? To rob a church.”

Crowley means to say, “Yes, angel. I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? And who are you hanging out with you hear of such things?” But what actually comes out is, “Er, well-” before the angel again ignores him in favor of speaking himself.

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous! Holy water won’t just kill your body, it’ll destroy you completely!” Something tugs at Crowley’s heart. It must be the pleading tone in Aziraphale’s voice. The fact that he’s looking at him desperately, not even blinking, that catches in off guard the most.

“You told me what you think one hundred and five years ago.” He responds coolly. Something is happening here but he really doesn’t want to sit through another sanctimonious angelic speech at this moment. He’s feeling too out of control for it.

Aziraphale stops his speaking and fidgeting for a second and really looks at Crowley. He can feel the angel staring directly into his eyes. It’s a nasty habit the angel picked up several centuries ago. While his glasses may obscure him from the general public, those angel eyes see through him to the core.

Finally, Aziraphale sighs. “And I haven’t changed my mind,” he holds his hand up to stop Crowley from saying anything, “But I can’t have you risking your life, not even for something dangerous.”

Crowley’s heart is beating double time in the cage of his chest and he feels like something is shifting in the rockbed beneath him. His mind is screaming at him to pay attention, but he can’t through the thinly veiled panic (and _hope_ , always so, so much _bloody hope_ ).

Aziraphale continues, “So, you can call off the robbery.” From a pocket of the universe, the angel produces a simple tartan thermos; the kind that wives send their husbands with each morning when they leave for work. The type that caring parents give their kids when they go to play in the snow. Both the specifics of the gesture and the actuality speak to a level of care and intimacy that Crowley doesn’t know how to quantify.

He hands the thermos to Crowley gently, and lets his pinky finger drag along the outside of Crowley’s hand. The contact is simple and brief, and it lights Crowley up.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap.” Aziraphale says as Crowley takes possession of the thermos.

“It’s the real thing?” He asks dumbly. Of course, it is. He can tell.

“The holiest.” The angel replies simply. The implication is _anything_ but simple.

He can’t look away from the thermos and whispers into the car, “After everything you said.” His voice is soft. _Fuck_. Even he can’t try to play that off as anything but what it is. If the angel didn’t know about Crowley’s pathetic devotion before, he’d have every reason to speculate now. “Should I say, ‘thank you’?” he asks. He knows the answer already.

He gets a tight smile from Aziraphale, one clearly meant to mask his thoughts. “Better not.” He replies.

“Well, can I drop you anywhere?” The hot, coursing impulsivity is rising in him again and he doesn’t have it in him to let Aziraphale walk away again. For the first time, or at least the first time he’s _let_ himself think it in front of the angel, Crowley wants to be _known_. He wants these feelings in his chest to be understood by their intended target. He wants to know if Aziraphale _knows_ what they are. What they could be. What they were supposed to be.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea, my dear?” Aziraphale responds, but he’s looking straight out through the windshield, not looking at Crowley.

“Obviously, or I wouldn’t have asked.” He responds, trying to let a little but of swagger into it. He only nearly misses sounding indignant.

“Crowley, _please_.” It’s so close to his dream that he momentarily wonders if the entire night has been a machination of his imagination.

“Please _what_ , Aziraphale?” He’s exasperated and he’s tired, and he’s so damn heart sick. He’s so tired of being heart sick. Surely five millennia must be enough of that torture, even for a demon.

“Crowley, we _can’t_ , you know that. If we-, if you were to-”, the angel sighs and brings a hand up to pinch the bridge if his nose, press those lovely fingers into his eyes for a moment, “Where would you bring me, Crowley? And what would you want to do when we got there?”

It’s the first time they’ve even stepped around talking about _it_. This thing between them.

“I told you angel, anywhere you want to go.” It’s true. If the angel told him to drive all the way to the bloody moon Crowley’d figure out a way.

“Yes, that’s what I was worried about.” Aziraphale turns in his seat, breaking his perfect posture to bring his knee up into the bench seat and turn himself toward Crowley. His arm is resting on the back of the seat, hand millimeters from Crowley’s shoulder. “You would take me anywhere I asked, wouldn’t you?”

Demon or not, Crowley has always been honest with Aziraphale. He can’t bring himself to lie now. “Yes. I said anywhere, I meant it. Anywhere, _anything_ , you want.”

He decides to be bold. He takes off his glasses, places them in his breast pocket, and turns himself so that he’s facing Aziraphale. It brings their knees into contact, and Crowley rests his arm along the back of the seat as well, so their fingertips are touching; Crowley’s long spindly fingers brushing the first knuckles of Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured hand. If he reached his ring finger a bit, he’d be able to feel the pinky ring the angel wears. He bets the metal would be warm to the touch, Aziraphale always seem so _warm_.

He realizes it a second after he should, that Aziraphale’s breathing is a _mess_. For creatures who don’t need to do it, they’re both damn near panting in the confines of the Bentley and the air is so tense that Crowley’s sure he could grab a handful of it; watch the pieces sift through his fingers.

“ _Crowley.”_ The angel nearly moans it, and Crowley feels his fingers being enveloped, then squeezed by angelic ones.

“ _Angel,_ ” he responds, gripping his hand back and leaning closer. His face is nearly in the crevice of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. He smells divine, and just like Crowley always knew he had, but he doesn’t need to use his snake nature to tell. He’s damn near been _invited_ this close. “Angel, angel, _please._ ”

Aziraphale’s other hand comes up to bury itself in Crowley’s hair, his bottom two fingers just under the collar of Crowley’s shirt, brushing against his neck. It’s _electric_. He can’t help but let out something that sounds like a whimper. Aziraphale responds with a low sound of his own and breathes Crowley in so obviously that Crowley's heart aches in empathy. They're memorizing each other and that's too heartbreaking for him to think of just now.

“Crowley, _dearest_ , we can’t. It’s not _safe_. I didn’t give you the one thing that could remove you from my life to be the catalyst by which it happens anyway.” He gives Crowley’s hair another brush through, before pulling back so that they can look at each other properly.

“Angel, no, please don’t do this again. I _can’t-_ ” he’s begging and probably hyperventilating but who’s counting? This may well be his only chance; he can’t let it go.

Aziraphale steels himself before Crowley’s eyes and his heart shatters at the cold expression where warmth and _recognition_ once were.

“You _can_.” The angel says. He shifts, reinstating his immaculate posture. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could, oh I don’t know, have a picnic? Dine at The Ritz?”

Crowley can’t stand that professional tone. “I’ll give you a life. Anywhere you want to go.” Maybe they _could_ just go to the shop. Crowley would settle for wine and platonic company if it meant not letting it go this time.

He knows before Aziraphale even speaks that what he says is going to destroy Crowley more completely than any holy water can.

There’s a crack in the angelic façade for a fraction of a second before he shores up those defenses again.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Bang, spot on, _critical fucking hit_. While Crowley gasps out around a sob that’s trying to wrench its way out of his throat, and the angel miracles himself _somewhere_ so he doesn't have to see it and isn't that just fucking perfect?

Crowley _hates_ being right.


	3. Pray to Blades of Grass to Find Forgiveness in the Weeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How an angel and a demon reach an understanding and a world get's saved in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "This Too Shall Pass" by Danny Schmidt.
> 
> Sorry for extending the chapter total so many times. This one really got away from me. It'll earn it's rating in the next chapter which should also be posted today.

_The Beginning of the Beginning of the End_

Crowley takes some time after their meeting in the Bentley to get himself together. At first, he’s just taking a few weeks to put himself together so that he won’t spill his feelings all over the angel as soon as he sees him or shake him until he _understands_.

Then, with time comes anger. While he can’t say that Aziraphale doesn’t have a point (he’s right that it isn’t safe, Crowley knows it, he’s just also willing to take a chance on something he wants this badly), he’s sick of being the only one reaching. If nothing else, he knows he’s not alone in this, but he also knows that Aziraphale is always just waiting around to see what Crowley will do. He hasn’t reached for him in the same way. He may care for him, may even _want_ him (and _fuck_ , the things that knowledge does to Crowley), but what he’s feeling can’t be the same burning, unending desire and devotion that Crowley feels. If it were, he would not have been able to put him off so easily.

While he doesn’t consider himself a stellar demon, he also knows that he’s susceptible to a bit of pride and that pride is currently wounded. Here he is, having spent the entirety of his existence as a demon, and a fair share of it from _before_ in search of his other half, in search of that more perfect display of love, and he’s _sick to death_ of being so close but so far away.

So, he keeps to himself under the guise of needing space. Regrettably, he’s also testing Aziraphale. He wants to see how long it’ll take the angel to seek him out and, if he does, what will the reason be? Part of Crowley is ready to throw in the proverbial towel. If Aziraphale comes to him about the Arrangement, asking Crowley to take care of some blessings somewhere inconvenient, then Crowley knows that it’s a lost cause; he’ll keep pouring everything he has into a void that’ll never look back at him. It’ll hurt, but if that’s the case Crowley is going to try to move on. He’ll do his own wiling and Aziraphale will do his own blessing, and they can be nothing more than colleagues. It’ll be _fine_ (it won’t be fine).

If the angel comes to him with something else, an invitation to dinner ( _“…we can have a picnic, dine at The Ritz”)_ then that’s enough. But Aziraphale has to _say_ something. He has to let Crowley know that they’re something other than _enemies_ or Crowley needs to remove himself for his own self-preservation.

It’s easy enough to do through the 1970’s and 1980’s. They’ve gone for quite a bit longer than two decades and change without speaking. For two immortal beings, a decade is no more than a blink. Not to mention that the humans really have done quite a lot with drugs and Crowley thinks it may just be one of the best things he’ll take credit for. It has just enough intrigue (read: death, destruction of lives, risk, etc.) for Hell to be impressed and enough middle ground (being high really _is_ quite nice) for him not to feel _too_ much dissonance about touting it as an accomplishment.

He starts keeping plants. He read somewhere that they can understand you and that talking to the plants increases their growth rate. Crowley also needs a sounding board because, staying away from the love of his eternal life when they’re hunkered down in the _same bloody city_ and Aziraphale _still hasn’t called on him_ , is really fucking hard. Perhaps he doesn’t talk to his plants so much as shout abuse at them until he gets a desired result, but it works regardless (he doesn’t know that it works simply because he expects it too, but the universe must keep _some_ secrets to Herself) and it’s a good enough distraction that they’re well into the 1990’s before he even realizes it’s closing in on _three_ decades since that night.

He’s sitting alone at home making his way through his rather impressive collection of startlingly good whiskey when someone knocks at his door. This is odd, for one, because no one knows his address, for two because his neighbors know better than to knock (a little demonic miracle of his own), and three, who else would bloody _knock_?

The whiskey is to blame for him being a little slow on the uptake, because no sooner does he realize that there’s only one person it _could_ be, before the angel has materialized in his sitting room, arms crossed, and looking a little miffed.

“Angel?” he slurs. Fan-fucking-tastic, he’s slurring two syllable words.

“Crowley. Good to see you’re, erm, well.” The angel is looking around the room, no doubt taking in the empty bottles and general detritus around Crowley’s common area. To be fair, he’s been in a bit of a spiral lately and he wasn’t expecting any company to witness his flat in a tip.

“What d’ya want, angel?” he sighs out as he rolls his eyes. He goes to pour another glass of whiskey, realizes he’s not sure where the glass got off to and remembers that he’d taking to drinking straight from the bottle, well, quite a few bottles ago.

Seeing this, Aziraphale rolls his eyes and miracles a couple of cut glasses for them.

“Classy”, Crowley grumbles as he’s pours for them both. Of course, the angel would assume that Crowley would share his liquor. Bloody angel.

“Well, some of us _do_ have standards.” Crowley hates how that prim tone gets his blood pumping. It’s just that Aziraphale exists in an admirable dichotomy of prim and proper and self-righteous and also kind, brilliant and a _complete and total bastard_. He wishes he found that less attractive. It’s bloody annoying most of the time, but he’d be lying if those traits hadn’t defined Aziraphale as Crowley’s whole type.

“So, didya just come to drink my whiskey and feel self-important?” It comes out much harsher than he intended, but he doesn’t regret it. Maybe it’s time that he lets Aziraphale know how much his ambiguity hurts.

Aziraphale flinches imperceptibly. Or it would be imperceptible if Crowley weren’t constantly trying to commit every part of Aziraphale’s face to memory (for when he wouldn’t see it again).

“Ah, no. I simply came by to, well, to check in on you.” Crowley hadn’t expected that and must hastily miracle a coffee table to catch is shiny new glass of whiskey. “I know, in the past, we’ve gone for rather a while without speaking but it has been rather and while and I wanted to see-” he trails off and looks around. “Well, I’d wanted to see how you are. Now I have. I’ll just,” he looks around, “see myself out.”

Again, he’s struck with panic. He was _so sure_ that Aziraphale was going to let it go and never admit to what happened that night. Although he hasn’t alluded to it specifically, this isn’t about the Arrangement. It’s a tacit implication that Aziraphale cares of Crowley’s general wellbeing, and he _knew_ that but now he _knows_ that, and he can’t just let him leave. With a sweeping gesture, he makes his sofa less austere and more comfortable, including a black and red tartan throw blanket that he hates but he knows Aziraphale will appreciate. He also takes the time to ruthlessly sober himself up and only manages not to squawk about it by the skin of his overly sharp teeth.

“Nonsense angel. Come have a drink, it’s excellent whiskey.” He slouches into one side of the couch, the picture of forced nonchalance, and tries to beckon the angel to him with a shake of his glass, rattling the ice against the crystal.

“Well, I’d expect nothing less from you.” Aziraphale tosses him a wink that says, ‘thank you’ and Crowley gives him an honest-to-goodness grin in return.

From there, things become somewhat of a routine. Once or twice a month they’ll get together at Crowley’s or at the bookshop, or they’ll go to some new restaurant that Aziraphale wants to try, and they’ll drink and reminisce and it’s _nice_. Crowley loathes that word, but it is what it is. It’s the most he’s ever seen of Aziraphale and they haven’t even invoked the Arrangement _once_ since they started. In fact, they’re edging dangerously close to _best friend_ territory by human terms. Unsurprisingly, they’re the best couple decades of Crowley’s life.

Of course, a demon can’t just bask in an angel’s companionship all the time (no matter how much he wishes he could), and Crowley starts working on something big, something _elegant_ , that he hopes will buy him some much-needed reprieve from Hell. As they approach the new millennia, Crowley hears chatter that some humans are concerned over some nonsense to do with computers and the resetting of computer data to the year of 2000. It sounds like nonsense to him, but it’s _exactly_ the kind of nonsense that can get humans all riled up. He spends a good amount of 1997 through 1999 working his way through large tech firms and financial institutions (in short, as close as Earth gets to Hell) propagating the rumor that their systems may not function through Y2K and causing general panic and chaos. Its wild, really, what gets humans knickers in a twist.

About a week before New Years in 1999, a demon is found sprawled out on a squashy couch in a bookshop in Soho laughing hysterically at his own antics. There’s an angel too, and while he’s trying quite hard to look stern and disapproving, he’s having some trouble not responding to the demon’s good mood.

“And, and-, that’s the thing!”, Crowley yells. “S’all based on nothing. Just a quick ‘hey, have you considered that all of your computers might just go kaput because of a small change in code?’ and then they’re all ‘we’re going to fall to chaos, cheers’.”

“They really are quite concerned. It’s been the only topic of conversation at my barber’s for nearly three whole months. Dreadfully boring if you ask me.” The angel responds, proceeding to take a deep drink from a California wine that it’s clear he’s regretting trying but nonetheless contains alcohol and will have to do for now. He fails to contain a grimace, to which Crowley snorts and snaps his fingers. On his next sip, the startling acidity from the wine he was drinking had mellowed into something much more old world and to his liking. Aziraphale gives Crowley a drunken, face-splitting grin and Crowley’s decorative heart gives a squeeze in his chest.

“Of course, you’d think it’s boring. Nothing in here that could pass as technology.” He rolls his eyes behind his glasses in a way that he knows the angel can see.

“That’s simply not true, I have a telephone and I do have a computer!”, Aziraphale starts to look around to find where it might be. Crowley starts laughing. Yes, the angel does have a computer that Crowley had purchased for him several years back after getting frustrated at watching him do his receipts by hand. With a computer, they’d have more time for dinners and theater and getting rat-arsed together. Shortly after, however, the computer had shown its true purpose in the bookshop as yet another surface where Aziraphale could place books and has since been entombed.

“Leave it, angel. What are you doing for New Years anyway?” He’s been trying to bring this up all night and now seems as good a time as any.

Aziraphale takes another moment to squint in hopes of identifying where the computer may have gotten off to, but quickly gives up and turns back to Crowley. “I don’t have anything specific on. Why do you ask?” He gives Crowley a sly smile which says, ‘I know you want to ask me, so ask me’ and Crowley hates that he loves this game so much. It’s always been a part of their banter, but more so in the last several years. Crowley makes an offer to spend time together and Aziraphale pretends like he isn’t trying to get Crowley to offer to spend time together and gets to act surprised and demure when Crowley brings it up. It’s a ridiculous ritual, but it makes Crowley feel like the dashing gentleman and that sweet, fake innocent quirk to Aziraphale’s lips gets his blood pumping every time, so he’ll let it go.

“Nyeah, well, the shop has roof access, right? Thought we might be able to watch the fireworks. See if the humans will get their technology for the future.” Crowley _knows_ the bookshop has roof access only because it didn’t originally until Crowley made it so. He also knows that the humans will still have their technology because the Y2K rumor started as a conspiracy theory that Crowley himself stoked the fire on.

“Won’t it be quite cold to be outside?” The angel replies, as if he isn’t an angel of the Lord with no need for temperature regulation.

“I’ll take care of it.” He responds, already thinking of what he should bring.

“Oh, that sounds lovely then! I think I have a bottle or two in my collection that would be appropriate for the occasion!” Aziraphale claps his hands together and does a little wiggle that makes Crowley bite his lip against a real smile.

“Sounds perfect, angel.” He didn’t think to school his voice so it comes out soft and indulgent and that clearly registers to Aziraphale who gives him a very intense look that could almost be called _longing_ if that wasn’t absurd. Crowley runs his hand along the mark on his arm out of habit. He isn’t sure if he actually feels heat there sometimes or if it’s his mind playing tricks on him, but he’s been doing it for so long that he isn’t sure it matters.

They finish out the evening without incident, but there’s a new awareness building between them and Crowley isn’t sure what that means. In his dreams that night, Aziraphale is holding Crowley’s hands and there’s heat coursing through him and a spark in the angel’s eye when he looks up at Crowley, sea storm depths bright and shining, and says, “I see you know. _I see you._ ”

When he wakes up he desperately wishes Dream Aziraphale would’ve had the decency to explain himself.

_New Year’s Eve, 1999_

Crowley arrives fashionably late (read: 30 minutes early) with bags in tow. He lets himself into the shop, formalities like knocking long left to the ages, and yells out to Aziraphale that he’s heading to the roof to set up. Aziraphale yells back something like, “Set up what, exactly?” which sounds both curious and accusing which makes Crowley grin.

He drags the items up the spiral staircase to the flat about the shop, and then to the roof access door that found itself slightly surprised to exist just a few nights ago. When he reaches the roof, it’s unsurprisingly exactly how he’d pictured it. There’s a comfortable couch, a small table, more plants that he would’ve typically included which is revealing and a bit embarrassing, but they do add character and while it’s certainly winter in London, the roof is sporting a lovely ambient temperature of about 22 degrees.

Crowley pulls out some lovely lanterns that he’d picked up, hued in rich reds and golds, and hangs them around the ledge giving the whole area a warm, intimate feel. It’s then that Crowley realizes his mistake. That’s his problem really, he’s too optimistic and lives too much in a fantasy sometimes and forgets that there are very real implications for his bloody actions. Because this? This is _clearly_ a date. He’s set up an absolutely lovely _date_ when Aziraphale is expecting their typical friendly evening together. Fuck.

He’s just about to snap everything out of existence when he hears the door creak open and hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. He turns in poorly veiled horror to see the angel take in the entirety of the roof setting, turn to Crowley and absolutely _beam_.

“Oh, Crowley! This is simply beautiful. _Thank you_.” It’s the first time it’s been offered without ceremony. Crowley’s about to respond with a traditional, “Don’t say that”, when he just, well, _doesn’t._ Instead, he takes a step closer to Aziraphale, and says, “Of course, anything for you.”

Aziraphale turns to him sharply and there’s that longing look again. _What does that mean?_

He’s saved from doing something fantastically stupid like actually asking that question, when Aziraphale looks away and moves to the table to open one of the bottles he brought, which turns out to be a Chateau D’Esclans, which is actually quite funny. Aziraphale gives him a quirk of his lip in recognition and then miracles a couple of glasses to pour into. Before long, they’re seated on the couch, watching the fireworks display, as they move closer and closer to yet another new millennium.

The wine is crisp and a little sweet on his tongue, and the bubbles are going to his head as nature intended it.

“It seems strange,” Aziraphale breaks the silence by saying, “For these humans, mostly, this is the only millennium they’ll see. We’ve seen _so much_ Crowley. It’s really quite incredible.”

He understands where the angel is coming from. It’s like that, a bit when you’re an immortal, celestial being. They live here, among humans, but they’ve seen every new year since the first one.

“Yeah, s’a bit weird, honestly. Amazing too, just, they’re always on the edge of something new and exciting. You’d think it’d get old but it doesn’t.” He’s being quite open and honest tonight, but something about the atmosphere calls for it.

“Exactly right, my dear.” Aziraphale turns to him and they share the moment, with almost six millennia between them.

Crowley feels like he’s in stasis when he sees Aziraphale move his glass to his other hand, freeing up the one closest to Crowley, then moves that lovely, manicured hand right on top of Crowley’s, which was laying unencumbered on the cushion between them.

His head is spinning, but Aziraphale is looking at him so intently, like he can feel the spark rushing through him too, like he’s trying to figure out why it feels so _right_ when they touch. This is the first time since 1941 it’s been intentional.

He may be spiraling but he swears that the distance between them is getting smaller and smaller, and now he knows it is because he’s never been able to look at Aziraphale’s eyes this close before. The hand that was holding Crowley’s is now trailing up his arm. Up his _arm_ to a very specific location that Crowley has wanted Aziraphale’s hands on since before time was established as linear. Crowley’s breathing would be a mess if he hadn’t completely forgotten to keep doing it several moments ago, and he should say something. He should say that they should slow down, he should ask Aziraphale if he’s sure, he should bloody well start yelling “And who’s going _too fast_ now?” but what he does is drag his own hand up Aziraphale’s arm to rest at the crest of his shoulder, fingers just reaching for his jaw when all of a sudden there’s a loud BANG and an explosion of light and sound.

They jump apart from each other immediately, both looking panicked and a bit worse for the wear, when they realize it’s just the bloody fireworks that they’d come up here to watch. They turn back to each other, and share a knowing glance, that has a significant weight to it that hasn’t been there before, and then they turn back to the fireworks.

If Crowley ends up sitting just a bit closer than he typically would have, who could blame him?

And if when he sleeps that night, waking up after to the first morning of his sixth millennia on Earth, he dreams of his hands in cloud fluff hair and his lips on warm, holy ones, while he whispers, _I love you, I love you, I love you_ into them, well who could blame him for that either?

_London, 2007_

The birth of the Antichrist, the beginning of the end, really, changes everything. Aziraphale always moved at a glacial pace and in this he was no different. Since their silent revelation and almost _something_ on New Year’s Eve, they’d taken to holding hands sometimes, in the deep hours of the evening under the cover of dark and a bookshop’s walls. The clutter of the shop sometimes made Crowley itch to instill some order, they were also insulating. The shop was as much of a home as he’d ever had, although that may have had rather a lot to do with the shop’s owner.

The handholding though, it sure was _a lot_. It’d be almost a decade since that first touch with intent, surrounded by a pocket of the universe a demon had created for an angel, but each time Crowley’s heart rate sky-rocketed, and his body burned with _rightness_ , and he wanted to do everything. He wanted to press every inch of himself against Aziraphale and feel that softness and warmth pressed back. It wasn’t always sexual, either, when Crowley thought about it (although he certainly spent what amounts to actual _centuries_ thinking about _that_ too). Sometimes, he just imagined what it’d be like to sprawl out and let himself rest with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Would the angel run those plump fingers through Crowley’s unruly hair? Would he wrap a strong arm around Crowley’s ramshackle ribs and pull him close? In the end, Crowley just _wanted_ in every way he could. Knowing that Aziraphale might just want too was almost too much.

When he’s called to a graveyard for a briefing with some of Hell’s worst and subsequently handed the Antichrist in a picnic basket, he feels like it’s a cruel joke and absolutely in line with what he should expect out of his eternal existence. He spent centuries lying to Hell to make himself untouchable and maintain his life on Earth without interruption, and now he’s tasked with bringing about the end of it all.

When he gets behind the wheel of the Bentley his mind is just static and alarm bells and all he can think of is that first time he met Aziraphale, when his wings still burned bright white and his eyes didn’t bear the mark of a serpent. If he did this, they’d meet in the same way again. There would be a war and they’d be on opposite sides of it again. There was nowhere else for Crowley to fall this time. He thinks of Aziraphale in Eden, complete with his flaming sword that he’d carried as more of a burden than a bestowment from God and his heart breaks all over again. They were supposed to have more _time_.

He knows, deep down, that he won’t fight Aziraphale. When it comes to it, he knows Aziraphale will do what he has to because that’s what he’s always done. And Crowley will do what he’s always done and try to make things easier for him. He’ll kneel and let Aziraphale take his swing, and he’ll apologize all the while for not preventing this. It’s all he can do.

Arriving at the small hospital, Crowley throws the Bentley into something that resembles a parking space, drops the kid off with a nun who doesn’t seem nearly confident enough for the job at hand, and finds himself a payphone (curse his bloody wiles, they _always_ find a way to bite him right in the arse) and rings up Aziraphale to give him the news.

A short time later, much shorter than what accounts for the distance between Tadfield and Soho, Crowley’s ensconced once again in the bookshop and drinking like it’s the end of the world. He supposes that’s apt, this time around considering it quite literally _is_. They start drinking immediately, which leads to waxing poetic about what they love and what they’ll miss and _‘Don’t you remember that time in Rome? Oh, of course you do. How silly of me.’_ , and Crowley’s brain is firing on all cylinders because he _can’t lose this_. It’s taken him so long to get even here.

He broaches the topic carefully, testing the waters to see if Aziraphale will take the bait. Regrettably, he’s met with the same reticence that he received when he dipped his toes in the waters of the Arrangement for the first time. Aziraphale is, predictably, towing the party line with his slurring speech about not being able to disobey orders.

They sober up, then they get drunk all over again when they realize that being sober does allow them to think clearly but that, quite frankly, sucks at the moment.

He’s on the floor at this point and he’s almost certain it’s the next day but who really cares? Aziraphale is also on the floor, albeit sitting primly as a very drunk angel can with his back against his desk, while Crowley is sprawled inelegantly and watching Aziraphale’s reflection through an empty bottle of wine.

His panic attack is still happening, he thinks, although it’s syrupy slow and feels far away right now. Between the alcohol and his growing desperation, he really should’ve figured he’d say something regrettable, but at the moment he couldn’t care less.

“I can’t-” he starts but immediately his throat starts to close, “I can’t fight you, angel. If the time comes, I can’t.”

Aziraphale rolls his head to lock eyes with Crowley and, again, Crowley feels something as if from far away; a recognition maybe. Something in Aziraphale is reaching out to something in him and, for a moment, they’re both on the same page.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale starts, but his voice is desperate-edged and trails off for a moment. “I couldn’t imagine-, oh Crowley, I couldn’t imagine having to.” He sounds totally lost and Crowley can relate.

“We’ll figure it out, angel. Trust me.” He says with more confidence than he has.

“I know.” Aziraphale responds, voice small and sincere.

Suddenly, Crowley isn’t alone on the floor. Aziraphale is laying next to him, twining their fingers together.

Crowley commits himself to protecting this at all costs, or at least protecting Aziraphale. He was a crappy angel and a worse demon, but he would go out of this existence protecting the one being he was destined to love at any cost.

The next day, they meet in St. James’s Park on their customary bench. They’ve been meeting here for longer than it’s had it’s given moniker and Crowley tries to memorize every detail. He’s been doing that for a couple of days now; trying to commit everything to mind in case he loses it.

Aziraphale, the stubborn arse, is committed to his “we’re hereditary enemies” schtick and Crowley’s just biding his time until he can convince him otherwise. Aziraphale is about to storm off in a self-righteous huff when Crowley plays his best hand and invites him to lunch. The angel is in a rage for pleasure when it comes to food and he’ll be hard pressed to deny Crowley’s invitation. He’ll ply Aziraphale with excellent food and better wine and then try again.

The Ritz, as expected, has a wonderful selection and Aziraphale is back to radiating happiness and being the personification of a beam of light in no time. He’s so beautiful under these soft lights; his hair looks like spun gold and his eyes take on a sea foam hue that Crowley adores.

“What are you in the mood for now?” Aziraphale asks as he finishes his meal, dabbing at his mouth gently.

“ _Alcohol._ Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.” Crowley responds and it’s honest. He’s had about enough of the day sober as he can manage. He finishes his espresso and they’re on their way to the bookshop in minutes. It isn’t a long walk, perhaps only 20 minutes or so, but he trusts the Bentley to get herself where he needs her to be and he wants to prolong his time with Aziraphale, per usual.

Once safe in Soho again, they start drinking. Not to the extent they were the other night, but still plenty more than a typical human could support. He finally lays out the plan he spent last night concocting. They’ve been around humans long enough to know that it’s more influence than nature that tips someone to their of their respective sides. Humans aren’t typically born damned or virtuous; simply born and molded. If they were able to mold the Antichrist, they might be able to balance out those forces.

Initially reticent, Aziraphale eventually agrees that they can make it work.

“ _Godfathers_. Well, I’ll be damned.” Aziraphale says, self-satisfied smirk in place.

“It isn’t so bad, once you get used to it.” He lets a little of his swagger into the statement; a bravado if you will, to sell the confidence he doesn’t have in this plan a little more.

He gets a playfully reproachful look from Aziraphale, which is what he was gunning for, and when they shake hands, it’s electric. This time, Aziraphale doesn’t turn away, he locks eyes with Crowley the whole time.

_The Dowling Years_

If there’s anything about his time as Warlock’s nanny that makes his life easier, it’s that Aziraphale’s whole Brother Francis look is ghastly enough that he doesn’t get as distracted as he would otherwise. Sure, they still see each other as usual when they’re not tending to the Antichrist or his parent’s property, but he can’t get distracted staring at Aziraphale while he should be watching a precocious toddler. He’ll never admit it, but the kid is endearing. He’s always liked children, their natural curiosity and thirst for knowledge is something he can relate to and their joy at the simplest of things is palpable.

As he grows older, though, Crowley starts to worry if their attempt to even the score to neutrality is really working. He keeps him up more nights than it ever did Nanny Ashtoreth.

Aziraphale, for his part, doesn’t say much on the topic. He mostly just stares at Crowley sometimes, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing and doesn’t want to risk forgetting it. Crowley’s too busy to pick that apart.

In time, their necessity as household installations wanes and, briefly, they provide their services as tutors (Crowley as Mr. Harrison, teaching science and philosophy, Aziraphale as Mr. Cortese, teaching literature and theology and sometimes math) before there’s no other guise to work under. The stage is set, as they say, and the chips will fall where they fall.

Warlock’s eleventh birthday passes with incident, or without depending on how you view the whole lack of a hellhound thing, and before they know it, they’re at odds again with Aziraphale withholding information and Crowley trying desperately to keep the thing that’s most important to him.

When they meet at the bandstand, Crowley knows he’s about to get his heart crushed. He knows it like he knew it in 1967 and he _hates_ that he knows it, but he _loathes_ that he’s here anyway. How many bloody times is he going to get his heart wrecked by an angel in a bowtie?

“ _Enough._ I’m leaving.” He says. If he doesn’t, he’ll start yelling he knows it.

“You can’t _leave_ Crowley, there isn’t anywhere to go!” Aziraphale yells after him.

“Big universe,” he says, scuffing his boot against the asphalt, “Even if this all ends up in a pile of burning goo, we could go off together.” It’s his last play. All avenues lead here.

“Go off together?” Aziraphale says. He sounds shocked and unmoored. He schools his features and continues. “Listen to yourself!”

Crowley can’t stand it anymore. How many times are they going to argue in circles? “How long have we been friends? Six thousand years?”

There’s a beat of silence that’s heavier than he’s ever felt it. Here it comes.

“ _Friends?_ We aren’t friends, Crowley! We are an _angel_ and a _demon._ We have nothing in common, I don’t even like you!”

It strikes right at the heart but Crowley barrels ahead.

“You _do_.” It’s true and he just needs Aziraphale to admit it. Just _once._

Aziraphale steels and then he’s spilling words faster that Crowley can shield himself from them.

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn’t tell you. We’re on _opposite sides_.”

Crowley’s had quite enough of that. He hisses, “ _We’re on our side!”_ He thinks he’s gotten his point across, but Aziraphale’s face twists and his voices changes, and Crowley was wrong, _this_ is going to be the final blow.

“There isn’t an ‘our side’, Crowley. Not anymore. It’s over.” He can barely clock how Aziraphale looks close to tears because anger and a depth of sadness he doesn’t think he’s felt before war in his head an in his heart and he isn’t sure who’s winning.

“Right, well then. Have a nice doomsday.” He walks off, there’s nothing left to do. He laid himself bare, everything. He offered the angel everything and was again, rejected. What is he even fighting for anyway, if Aziraphale couldn’t be fucked to help him? He’ll deal with this the same way he’s deals with things when they went pear-shaped; on his own. A voice at the back of his head reminds him he was never _quite_ alone, and he silences it viciously. He doesn’t have the luxury of those thoughts anymore.

He goes home to prepare, there’s a challenging bit with him using his insurance for the first time which ends in murder, takes a trip through the ether to trap Hastur, and rushes to let Aziraphale know that they’re all onto him because if Hell knows so does Heaven and even after everything, he can’t stomach the idea of Aziraphale being harmed.

He finds Aziraphale on the sidewalk outside of the bookshop. He vaguely parks the Bentley before jumping out, apologizing (for what he isn’t entirely sure), and asking again for the angel to choose him, just _once._ It ends about as well as he thought, with another rejection, public as it is, and his bleeding, broken heart in his hands. He remembers the story of Jesus and Peter at the Last Supper; and he feels a kinship with God’s son in one of the oddest moments in his life.

After, it’s a blur, the horrific highlight of which is a burning bookshop and a distinct lack of an angel where there always should be one. He still feels that tug, that connection he feels deep in his bones, but he can’t feel the angelic presence he’s so used to anymore and he’s screaming for him and there’s _nothing_.

He eventually picks himself up, grabs a random book that hasn’t seen the worst of the fire, and walks back outside. It’s raining, which feels appropriate. It also slightly masks the tears streaming down his face. He thinks about trying to fix things, but what’s the point? Aziraphale’s gone, Crowley failed, and in mere hours the Earth will be razed to it’s very sediment by the armies of Heaven and Hell. There’s nothing more to be done. He goes to the next pub he comes across and figures if he’s going to do this, he’s sure as fuck not going to be sober for it.

A quick demonic misdirection shields the humans, aside from the bartender that he heavily influenced not to ask any questions, from his rather pathetic appearance and is quickly through a couple of bottles of scotch.

His whole body hurts. He can’t remember that ever happening before. Sure, he’s been injured. He’s even been discorporated once or twice (he may be able to play with fire, but water is a whole other thing, also not all angels are friendly), but he’s never felt like his entire body was raging against him, against existing in a world that didn’t have Aziraphale as a part of it anymore. He’s still crying, which is reasonable because he couldn’t hope to expend a miniscule amount of demonic power to control his corporation. He’s sure his eyes have gone full snake too. Who cares? They’d finally done it; taken away the one thing Crowley couldn’t live without. They’d taken his divinity, his ability to feel the warmth and love of his creator, his home, his sense of security and all of that was awful yet bearable because he had his soulmate if nothing else. He may not have known what Crowley was to him, may never be able to return his sentiment and devotion, but he _had_ Aziraphale in his life. He could talk to him and sometimes touch him and he had the chance to know him.

They’d taken away everything, but he’d still managed to find his other half and had still managed to find that more perfect understanding of love. He didn’t need Aziraphale to reciprocate to realize that he loved the world, in many ways, because he saw the way _Aziraphale_ loved it. Crowley hadn’t read a book in at least a century, but he _loved_ books because they made Aziraphale’s eyes light up in that way that spoke to deep contentment. Crowley couldn’t be fussed with food most of the time (save for a few notable acceptions; eggs, tarte tatin, and Kraft Easy Mac, the latter of which was the only one that approached embarrassment for him), but he still knew every restaurant worth it’s weight because he could bring Aziraphale there and he _loved_ food.

However, knowing that and now dealing with that loss? It was more than any demon, angel, or to be quite honest any living thing was built to withstand. Crowley thought they’d burned his heart out when he landed in Hell, but it turns out it’d been right where he left it until forces beyond his control had wiped the surface of the planet of Her best design yet.

Crowley didn’t ask for this; he never asked for any of it. One day he was just doing his thing, all mapping the skies and pining for his love and then Lucifer and his buddies brought up a couple of good points that appealed to Crowley’s inquisitive nature and then it was all “I cast thee out!” and trying desperately to remember what his soulmate looked like and stop the burning pain running through his wings.

It comes to pass that he’s saying most of this out loud, but with his demonic influence over the patrons and employees, it likely appears as just another drunk human screaming their misfortune into the void. Funny, he’s never felt so human as he has now. In every other situation he’s found himself in, there was always the celestial option; he could always influence or change or adjust the world around him to meet his needs. This time, he has no power to change it. The humans have been calling death the great equalizer for generations now, and it’s never felt so true and so hopeless.

Between swigs of scotch and furiously wiping tears from his stained cheeks, he starts to feel something happening. Initially, he figures it’s just his hellish notification system letting him know that Armageddon is getting on with itself and he should really find his brethren, but before he knows it there’s a suggestion of an image in front of him and a voice so familiar his blood runs cold (or colder than usual).

He _knows_ that voice. He’s heart it prim and proper and angry and fussy and out-and-out bastardly through every single year of humanity’s existence and, without his permission, his entire body floods with damnable _hope_. It’s awful, it’s going to let him down, it’s possibly the most intense thing he’s ever felt save for that one New Year’s Eve he tries so hard not to think about.

“ _Aziraphale?_ ”, he starts. His voice sounds appropriately shocked and thready. “Are you here?” He has to ask. It’s entirely possible that he’s started hallucinating. He certainly did enough hallucinogenic drugs to know it’s possible and he’d heard something ages ago about some kind of mental recall or perma-tripping, or who the fuck even cares because somehow, _somehow_ , Aziraphale has made his way back to him.

Aziraphale’s voice responds, albeit far away and echo-y, “Good question. Not sure. Never done this before.” He waits a beat. “Can you hear me?”

“Of course, I can hear you.” He says it honestly in a way that could not be more obvious. Crowley’s thankful that he isn’t sure if Aziraphale can see him, if he could there’d be no getting away from what’s written across his face.

“Afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things.” The angel responds. “Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

Crowley’s stopped any higher order functioning, so he immediately responds, voice thick in his throat, “Nah. Changed my mind. Stuff happened,” he pauses to try and stop his voice cracking and fails, _“I lost my best friend.”_

Crowley feels something, it doesn’t seem like it’s coming from him, but he can’t get a lock on the direction. It feels an awful lot like love, like _longing_ , but he doesn’t have time. The space that might just be Aziraphale feels closer now.

His voice is very soft, tentative almost, when he responds. “Sorry to hear it.” There’s enough of a pause after where Crowley _almost_ spills the beans. He almost says it out loud because how can he not? He’s either finally lost it and is talking to nothing, for which there would be no consequence, or he’s telling the real Aziraphale which is terrifying, but the world is ending so who gives a rat’s arse? There’s such a large part of time, a consuming part really, that wants the words out in the open while there’s an open to speak them into. He wants to say, _I know you don’t remember but we’re fated to be together, angel. I love you, Christ do I love you. I’ve loved you since before I knew who you were, and I’ve loved you even more for every second since. I was made to be yours and it’s the only thing I’ve ever been that matters worth a damn._

Instead, Aziraphale’s voice trudges through, all business, “List, back in my bookshop there’s a book I need you to get.”

Crowley’s recently bolstered heart plummets again. _He doesn’t know_. Bollocks. Crowley doesn’t want to have to bring him this bad news, but it appears that’s his lot.

“Oh, erm, look,” he pauses and takes an unnecessary breath, “your bookshop isn’t there anymore.”

“Oh?”, Aziraphale asks.

“I’m really sorry. It burned down.” He’s surprised to find his voice as apologetic as it is. The bookshop was a home to the angel, and a home to him by association. He’s sad to see it gone and he hadn’t had a chance to think about it through the overwhelming grief of losing Aziraphale too.

“All of it?” Aziraphale’s voice is cautiously optimistic and it breaks Crowley’s heart _again._

“Yeah. What-, what was the book?” He can’t get into the loss just yet; it seems like the angel has a reason and if there’s a reason then it’s possible that there’s still hope.

“The one the nice lady with the bicycle left behind.” Aziraphale replies, “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of-”, Aziraphale doesn’t get a chance to respond.

There are few times in one’s life, even as long as Crowley or Aziraphale’s, when it looks like the universe cut you a deal. Crowley knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he barely registers the serendipity of it all before he’s yelling.

“Agnes Nutter! Yes, I took it!” He’s holding the book in an instant and pointing to it without thought for whether Aziraphale can see it or him or if any of the people in the pub are getting suspicious about a guy wearing sunglasses, at least two bottles of scotch down, and screaming one half of a conversation with someone who isn’t really there.

“You have it?” The angel’s voice has taken on that excited tone he sometimes gets and it’s possible that if he could see Aziraphale clearly, he’d be smiling in that growing way that makes every thread of Crowley’s infernal soul want to reach out and wrap itself around the angel.

“Look! Souvenir!” He’s getting some of his edge back, which is good. He has a feeling he knows where this is headed.

“Look inside! I made notes, it’s all there. The boy’s name, address, everything else. I worked it all out.” Here is the angel, such a short time after their fight, giving Crowley all the details. Even when he said he wouldn’t. It’s 1967 all over again and Crowley’s heart is so committed to this. Maybe this is their chance. _Maybe._

He gambles on the same thing he gambled on then. “Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you. Where are you?” He hopes against hope that he isn’t moving too fast this time.

“Ah, I-, I’m not really anywhere yet.” The angel says, which is a bit of a head-scratcher really until he continues. “I’ve been discorporated.”

 _Ah_. There it is then, the explanation that eluded Crowley’s logical thinking. Of _course_ , he couldn’t feel Aziraphale because his entity was in Heaven, beyond Crowley’s scope for some time now. He feels a bit silly about the dramatics, but he challenges anyone to have felt differently had they been in his boots.

“You need to get to Tadfield Airbase.” The angel says.

“Why?” Crowley asks because, when hasn’t he?

“World ending. That’s where it’s all going to happen. Quite soon now, I’ll head there too. I just need to find a receptive body.”

And that’s where Crowley’s last functioning braincell says ‘sayonara’ and checks the bloody hell out. He can’t think about _that_. He knows what Aziraphale is saying, knows it isn’t nearly as base as Crowley is taking it, but his feelings are so close to the surface and he can’t possibly share a corporation with Aziraphale _right now_ when his thoughts are all over the place and his want and desire and _love_ are thrumming healthily just under his skin. He mumbles something unimportant and snarky out in response to Aziraphale’s mild indication that he might very well explode should their souls mix (he can’t think about _that_ either) but he’s stopped paying attention. His mind is on a loop of _Aziraphale’s alive, our side, Tadfield Airbase_ and that’s really all he has function enough to support.

“I’ll meet you at Tadfield. But we’re both going to have to get a bit of a wiggle-on.” The angel says.

“ _What?”_ Crowley responds because, _come on_.

“Tadfield Airbase!” Aziraphale shouts back.

“I heard that! It was the ‘ _wiggle-on_ ’” He responds because, he’ll never get over the angel’s antiquated, awkward turns of phrase. But he wouldn’t change them, either.

The next hour is an anxiety-induced all-out war between himself and reality. He’s in the Bentley and then he’s stuck in traffic which it turns out is essentially of his own design due to the whole M25 thing. _Of course_ , even that one would fuck him over. Then Hastur evidently figured his way out of Crowley’s voicemail and into the passenger seat which, _no thank you_ , so he decides ‘fuck it’ and drives right through a wall of hellfire. He’s so sure it’ll work, for a moment, and it does even as Hastur burns up beside him. Somehow both he and the Bentley are in one piece, if not a bit warmer than usual as the burning car flies down the motorway towards Tadfield, towards the end of the world, towards his _soulmate_.

When he arrives, there’s an older gentleman and a woman who contains more than just herself and Crowley can immediately tell that’s how Aziraphale hitched a ride. She’s quite lovely, and somehow Crowley thinks she might know more than the typical human does. He throws Aziraphale a compliment and is satisfied that his pleased blush comes through regardless of the corporation he inhabits.

After dealing with the guard and the crushing blow of the Bentley succumbing to flames (and hearing Aziraphale’s prim voice shape the words ‘Lick Butt’, something Crowley is positive he’ll _never_ get over), he’s joined on the tarmac by the witchy girl with the bicycle, a young man who seems like he might have a stoke any second, three human children, the Antichrist, and the four horsepeople of the Apocalypse. He remembers a time when he was a nameless demon and wonders if it wouldn’t have been better to just waste his days as a snake. This is _ridiculous_. Shockingly, it turns out the nervous man brought down the computer systems, is somehow dating the witchy girl (which Crowley _must_ give him some credit for. His heart may well be spoken for and his preferences running in a different lane, but the girl’s a smoke show), and the Them are really quite adept at handling themselves.

For one second, it seems like Adam’s defiance of the horsepeople is enough, but then he feels the air shift and there’s a different angelic feel to it accompanied by the brimstone, thick with humidity, that’s Hell’s hallmark. Then, there they are, Gabriel and Beelzebub, walking towards them and looking none too happy about it.

After some initial unpleasantness, it seems that their interest is more with Adam than it is with them. Adam, bless his heart (another thing Crowley can’t believe he thought), stands his ground. For a second, he thinks it might be okay, but then Aziraphale has to open his mouth.

“Ahem, you keep talking about the Great Plan,” he starts before Gabriel tries, unsuccessfully to put him off. Aziraphale continues un-stymied, “One thing I’m not clear on, is that also the Ineffable Plan?”

Beelzebub responds with their trademark lack of affect, “The Great Plan, it is written. There shall be a world, and it shall last for 6,000 years, and end in fire and flame.”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale goes on, “That sounds like the Great Plan. Just wondering, is that the Ineffable Plan as well?” And, _Christ_ , there’s his brilliant bastard of an angel. _They don’t know_.

“Well, they’re the same thing.” Gabriel responds, but he sounds anything but assured.

Crowley walks over to where Aziraphale stands and backs his play. He can’t believe he missed it; this is normally the kind of agile thinking _he_ uses to get around rules but fuck if Aziraphale hasn’t played an excellent hand. He can feel his love and admiration for Aziraphale freely pumping into the space around them and he sees Adam give him a side glance. _Well, that’s embarrassing_.

Shortly after, Beelzebub and Gabriel have a short chat before letting them know that the problem would be escalated promptly. Crowley doesn’t have enough time to wonder how much time left they have before he’s being wrenched to the ground by searing pain and anger. For a moment he wonders why he isn’t being dragged to Hell; this is typically a precursor to _that_ experience, but the ground beneath him doesn’t budge. If he isn’t going down, then-

It only takes him a millisecond after to realize what’s going to happen. He’s screaming to get their attention, to let them know that Satan _knows,_ and he is _not happy_. He needs them to understand what’s about to happen and he _needs_ to get a second to talk to Aziraphale because this is it. This is the last stand and Crowley’s last change.

He wants to say a lot of things but he’s panicking and all he comes up with is, “We are _fucked!”_

Aziraphale had taken repossession of his flaming sword, carried initially by War, several moments ago but Crowley’s getting flashbacks now to white robes and a gorgeous angel at the helm of Eden.

Aziraphale is looking pleadingly at him, and Crowley doesn’t know how to tell him that he’s out of moves. “Come up with something or”, the angel trails off for a second before steeling. Christ almighty, here comes the hurt. “Or I’ll never talk to you again.” The way he says it strikes Crowley like a slap. He has barely a moment to figure out the depth of that; is it a threat or a fear? Tough to say, especially as he’s proverbially shaken off his chains, stood up, and is now stopping time and bringing he, Aziraphale, and Adam to a pocket universe. It doesn’t change anything, but it buys them a moment to regroup.

Suddenly, things are quiet. Aziraphale, still in his suite and bow tie and waistcoat, has his wings out and his sword lit, looking every inch the reluctant warrior. Adam looks a bit blasé about the whole thing which chaps Crowley’s arse a bit, but he’s glad he isn’t freaking out at least.

He explains the situation to Adam and Aziraphale backs him and they realize, simultaneously, that they only advice they can give is for Adam to do _something_. He feels impotent, a bit, that there isn’t anything he can do to help. It’s too late to whisk Aziraphale off to Alpha Centauri or any other bloody place in the universe. Win, lose, or draw (with very little likelihood of the latter), they’re in this.

They grab Adam’s hand as Crowley uses what turns out to be the tire iron from his Bentley to ramp himself up to restart time. They’re back on the tarmac instantly and Crowley moves closer to Aziraphale to replace the space Adam’s hand left with Aziraphale’s. The angel turns his head to him sharply and while Satan comes to the surface, an angel and a demon start into each other’s eyes. Crowley could cry with the recognition he sees there. As Satan breaks the surface, Aziraphale releases his hand to grip is own arm which Crowley means to ask about but then an eleven-year-old human is in a show-down with the King of Hell and _winning_.

There’s something that’s pulling at Crowley’s consciousness, but he’s _exhausted_ and somehow Satan is returning from whence he came, and everyone is chatting and then they’re heading towards a bus stop of all things because, and his chest pangs with loss, he doesn’t have his Bentley anymore.

_The Bus_

Aziraphale chooses to sit next to him, which is one more revelation that Crowley’s consciousness can handle. A short time later the angel’s hand finds his and tugs so that Crowley is leaning against Aziraphale. He means to balk, he means to shake the angel and ask, “ _what in cursed hell are you doing?”,_ but instead, he babbles a few non-syllables before the angel lifts his other hand to Crowley’s soot-stained cheek.

“Darling, you look absolutely exhausted. Rest. I’ll wake you when we arrive.” Then he brings Crowley’s head to his shoulder and Crowley doesn’t have the heart to argue. This is all he’s ever wanted and to be invited? To have Aziraphale welcome his body against his? Well, if this is the last thing he does, he’ll leave his existence content.

Right as he’s starting to doze, he hears the angel whisper, “We have many things to discuss, I believe we’re safe for the night, but we’ll need to plan. But after that, we’ll need to talk. I have so much to tell you.”

He makes a noise of agreement and nods off to be woken by angelic hands sometime later.

He doesn’t know what time it is when they reach his flat in Mayfair, but it’s safe to say that it’s well past when most humans turn in. The night, even in London, is at the deepest depth of dark and Crowley’s silk sheets are calling to him. He ignores that and instead, leads Aziraphale to his sitting room which found itself surprised to contain a replica of Aziraphale’s old sofa just moments before, the sight of which makes Aziraphale radiate something that Crowley vaguely recognizes, before they’re sitting together, pressed together, and Aziraphale is talking strategy.

They decide it’s the best shot, the body swap thing. Heaven and Hell and proved again and again that creativity isn’t their strong suit. After being discorporated, Aziraphale learned that they believe angel’s incapable of possession, so they wouldn’t even think of it. Crowley’s too tired to be sure, but he’d trust the angel with his life, so they agree quickly. They’ll swap in the morning, after they’ve gotten some rest.

Crowley must have nodded off because, he wakes when jostled to realize he’s being carried. That knowledge alone is significant because firstly, of the intimacy, and _secondly_ because it opens up quite a few possibilities on the more carnal side of things that involve a very strong angel and any one of Crowley’s bare walls (or his opulent shower).

He feels a miracle wash over him and finds himself placed softly on his bed wearing comfortable cotton pajamas which, on inspection, have little black and red snakes on them.

“Really?” he looks up incredulously at Aziraphale who smiles smugly and snaps himself into a pair of light blue silky sets that makes Crowley ache in the chest and the groin.

“Really. Would you mind terribly if I took a rest as well? I know I don’t typically sleep but,” the angel trails off for a second, looking out of Crowley’s bay window, “but I really am quite tired.”

“Anything, angel. You know that.” He can finally say it confidently, so he does.

“I do know that.” Aziraphale responds with a hint of wonder that makes Crowley want to stay awake. However, the next moment, Aziraphale has laid down next to him and is pulling Crowley closer.

“I know now isn’t the time, but I think if this doesn’t work, I should like to have held you, even the once.” Aziraphale says softly. Crowley’s breath hitches in his throat and he almost feels like crying again. Instead, he drags himself as close as their physical reality will allow and buries his head in the angel’s shoulder.

Aziraphale lets out a sigh that feels like it’s been trapped for 6,000 years, and his arms come around Crowley just slightly less tense than a vice grip.

The last thought Crowley has before he nods off is that this is better than any dream he’s ever had.


	4. Honey, You're Familiar Like My Mirror Years Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally get down to the business of getting loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The end! It promise it's as soft as possible.
> 
> Chapter title is from "From Eden" by Hozier because of course it is.
> 
> This has been such a pleasure to write and I appreciate everyone who stuck with me posting twice what I planned to.

_In Their New Beginning_

In the end, it shockingly goes off without a hitch. Somehow, Crowley saunters down from Heaven wearing the angel’s body like armor (very, very interesting, soft armor) to find that the world is still turning and there’s still a specific angel in it.

They swap back, trade stories (and Crowley leaves out that those arsehole archangels didn’t even give him a fair trial, that they’d have let a lowly demon lay a hand on Crowley’s soulmate if he hadn’t been there to stop it) and Crowley laughs out loud at Aziraphale’s bravado. He doesn’t ever wish to return to Hell, but he’d pay a decent sum for a videotape of Aziraphale’s one-night engagement as the Demon known as Crowley.

He successfully tempts Aziraphale back to The Ritz and they share plates of truffle pasta and finish with an Eton mess that Aziraphale moans over and Crowley regrets his extremely tight trousers for the 239,582,947,294,586th time since he started wearing them. It doesn’t help that Aziraphale keeps touching Crowley’s arm, or grabbing his hand and running his thump over Crowley’s knuckles, or shooting him these heated looks. He’s aware that Aziraphale and he are likely more in sync than they’ve ever been, but his heart is beating double time because before they start this, he actually has to _tell_ Aziraphale what they _are._

The angel may be willing to accept his feelings now, whatever the size and shape of them, but he isn’t sure how he’ll react to the knowledge that he’s been soul-bound to a demon since the dawn of time.

When there’s no more wine to be drunk or dessert to be scraped from the plate, Crowley pays the check as Aziraphale stares at him, and escorts the angel out into their brave new world.

“What now, angel? Figured you’d want to see your shop still standing.” Crowley immediately veers to the right to head towards Soho. He only gets a few steps before he’s pulled back to where Aziraphale is stock still and staring at him with that same longing that’s been driving Crowley to the edges of his sanity for several centuries.

“I think,” the angel starts, “that I’d rather go back to yours, if you’re amenable.” His voice is lower and rougher than Crowley’s ever heard it and he can’t help but whimper quietly in response.

“Anything you want, angel.” He goes to walk again, but Aziraphale pulls him close, _so close_ , that he’s lucky his legs continue to hold him.

“You mean that.” Aziraphale says simply. “You mean it now and you meant it every time you’ve said it.”

“Erm, yeah. S’right.” He says looking down and feeling his traitorous body blush the shade of a fire truck. He can’t bring himself to look at Aziraphale’s face and see what’s pictured there.

“You really are an exceptional being. There’s much more to discuss, but you should know that I love you. Quite terribly and rather irrevocably.”

Crowley’s heart stops, his breath stops, and he’s definitely shaking because, well, there it is. Said so simply, what he’s wanted for his entire existence. _How can it be that bloody simple?_ Simple question, simply answer really. _It can’t._ Aziraphale may feel that way, but he might not when he realizes what Crowley’s been hiding for 6,000 years.

“ _Angel_ ,” he gasps out, “you can’t _say_ things like that to me.” He’s begging for Aziraphale to stopper this conversation, just until Crowley can sort out how to say it.

“Whyever not?” Aziraphale replies as he keeps Crowley close while pulling him toward the side of the building and out of the walkway. They end up with Aziraphale’s back against the building wall and Crowley pressed to his front. It’s remarkable how similar it feels to the former hospital in Tadfield, but with whole new context. Aziraphale runs his hand up Crowley’s arm in a soothing gesture but ends up running his hand over Crowley’s mark and he can stop himself from groaning. Oddly, Aziraphale lets out a gasp of surprise and moves his head slightly in the direction of his own arm. It takes Crowley a moment to connect that with Aziraphale’s reaction at the Airbase, but when he does it’s enough to almost knock him right on his arse.

“Angel, I’ll explain everything, but can it wait until we’re home?” he says quickly, not even debating over whether he _should_ all it home. Aziraphale’s home is wherever he wants it to be and Crowley’s home will always be Aziraphale’s too.

“Ah, yes, darling. Certainly.” He sounds confused and breathless, so Crowley uses the last of his demonic reserves for the moment to snap them back to Mayfair in the blink of an eye.

When they reorient, they’re in Crowley’s bedroom again which is revealing but also comforting. Just hours ago, he’d be held safely here in Aziraphale’s arms. There’s an outside chance it could happen again if the angel doesn’t hate him if he doesn’t think the feelings he has as lesser because they’ve been preordained.

He leads Aziraphale to sit on the bed with him and he takes a breath.

“Angel, please know before I tell you any of this that I love you too. I always have, really.” He starts and his voice is surprisingly calm. It actually feels _marvelous_ to say it; his entire body awash with relief and soft warmth at acknowledgement is deepest truth.

Aziraphale goes to say something, but Crowley gives a small shake of his head and squeezes the angel’s hand in a bid to give him more time. Aziraphale’s squeeze back and soft thumb running along Crowley’s fingers is all he needs.

“M’not sure how much you remember of, well, _before_. But in the beginning, before Eden and all that, God had a bit of a fancy about pairs. Something about each being having another half.” He says it as if he doesn’t remember the instruction to the letter. As if it hasn’t preoccupied him for his entire existence.

Aziraphale cuts in softly, “Yes. A soul mate, if you will, someone to help you gain a better understanding of love.” His voice is shaky. Aziraphale, while sometimes short-sighted, is certainly no dummy. He can see where this is going, but Crowley needs to get it out. He deserves to know _everything_ , and Crowley deserves to explain his side.

Crowley takes off his glasses, throws them onto the side table, and uses his free hand to rub his eyes so hard that colors explode behind his eye lids.

“Yeah, that. Did you ever meet yours, angel?” He says. It’s a cop out and a leading question, but it’s also the moment of truth.

“Nn, no. I didn’t. I rather thought I didn’t have one.” He gives a heartbreaking half smile that Crowley wants to kiss off of his beautiful face, but it isn’t the right time.

“N’yeah, so, that may not be so true. I think, after the entire war and Fall and, y’know, _demons_ , angels kind of forgot theirs, if they weren’t still in Heaven. Demons seemed to forget too, but, maybe not _all_ demons.” Aziraphale takes a sharp breath in and if Crowley squeezes his hand any harder he might do damage. It’s a plea for him to stay, to still love Crowley when all is said and done.

“I’m not sure if you still do, but I’ve got this mark here,” he takes his hand back momentarily to shuck his waistcoat and pull the neckline of his shirt down far enough to expose the mark he’d spent years making sense of. He didn’t know it at the time, but the mark is a book, open to a gilded page. What better could it be to represent his perfect love? This angel. He continues, “and _before_ I didn’t know what it was but then we met. I don’t think you remember, at least you’ve never said anything about it, but we met before I Fell. You were so _you_ even then when you were new. You’d abandoned your platoon because you just didn’t want to hurt anyone and I had a brief, complete knowledge of love just moments before they caught up. It thought demons lost their ability to love, but _angel_ , I never did. I’ve been trying to memorize your voice and your face and _you_ for my entire life, just wanting to hold you, be with you.” He’s crying now, _fuck_ , he’s got to stop doing that.

“I understand if this changes things, I mean, who’d want to be bound to a demon anyway?” his laugh is humorless, even to his own ears, “But I needed you to know. And now you know.”

He hadn’t retaken Aziraphale’s hand, so he rights his shirt and folds his hands around each other in his own lap, looking at the intently. He’d hoped to be braver, but he thinks he might be just about to get his heart crushed and his overactive imagination doesn’t need _that_ image to plague him for the rest of eternity.

Next to him, the angel’s breathing is a mess. He can feel him, tense and unmoving, and he _hates_ it. Aziraphale finally moves, but instead of storming off, or smiting Crowley where he sits, he starts to undo his bow tie, followed by the ancient buttons of his waistcoat, then the shirt underneath. Crowley, for his part, is having the demonic equivalent of an aneurysm because _what?!_

Aziraphale stands to rid himself of his coat, waistcoat, and shirt in one fell swoop before laying the items neatly on the floor at the base of Crowley’s bed. He comes to stand in front of Crowley, the demon reacting instinctively and spreading his legs a bit wider to accommodate him, as a lovely, warm hand brushes a flop of hair from his forehead and trails down to his jaw. With slight pressure, Aziraphale eases Crowley’s face up so that they can look one another in the eye. Crowley’s trying to memorize this moment, because Aziraphale is standing before him in nothing but his vest, strong, soft arms on display, a tuft of white, blonde chest hair peeking through the top and his belly and sides so _visible_ that Crowley wants to sink his teeth there and then rub his entire body against him.

Aziraphale’s eyes are wet and bright, clearly affected, before he brings Crowley’s hand to his arm and trails it up. Crowley doesn’t think much of it until the angel gasps when Crowley’s hand reaches his bicep calling the demon’s attention. And _there_ , is something Crowley didn’t ever imagine he’d see. Wrapped around the angel’s bicep, limned in holy gold, is a vine. It reaches around his arm and trails upwards towards his chest, the leaves look like devil’s ivy and Crowley can deal with the vegetational inaccuracy because he’s starting to understand what this _means._

“ _Angel”_ he chokes out as he runs a fingertip, so gently, along the vine ending where it disappears under the angel’s vest.

“I believe it’s my turn.” Aziraphale says, grabbing Crowley’s hand and pressing it to his chest. Crowley hand feel the ghost of his heart beat there and isn’t _that_ a thing? “My memory of what happened before, _everything_ , is a bit spotty. I think the Almighty wasn’t sure what to do with that, but I never felt I could ask. I was always so _different_ , Crowley. I thought, perhaps, She just hadn’t been able or interested in building me a partner.”

His fingers are stroking up Crowley’s arm and he’s definitely going to die, but _fuck_ will he die happy.

“I didn’t know you, when we spoke in Eden, but I felt something. I’ve felt something every time I’ve seen you since. It wasn’t until Rome that I started to suspect-” Aziraphale shakes his head, “not suspect, _hope_ , really that it might be you. That maybe She had built me the perfect match and all I had to do was find them. When I left, I noticed this mark for the first time; it’d burned when you touched me. No, no, don’t make that face, not in a harming way, darling. But the heat had been so _intense_. I thought maybe I had found you.”

“ _Rome_? You’ve known since _bloody Rome?_ ” Crowley exclaims. It’s a broken admission, but it feels good, nonetheless.

“I’m so sorry darling, that it’s taken me so long to catch up.” He strokes his hand along Crowley’s neck and rests it on his cheek so that his thumb is swiping at Crowley’s tears that he hadn’t realized were falling. He could get used to being called _darling_. He’s never been darling before.

“ _Don’t apologize_ ,” he begs, “Christ, anything but that. I’d have waited endless lifetimes for you.”

Aziraphale lets out a whimper that’s also quite close to a moan before he’s leaning into Crowley. Without lapels to pull on, Crowley drags his hand up to Aziraphale’s nape and pulls him in. When their mouths meet, they’re already slightly open. It’s gentle, but intense, and they both let wanton noises escape into each other’s mouths quite without either of their consent.

It’s so _warm_. Crowley feels like he can feel his hands in Aziraphale’s hair but can also feel hands in his hair, and he feels triumphant and desperate, and it takes him a moment to realize that they’re feeling what they’re each feeling, respectively. It’s like a feedback loop; Aziraphale feels good and then Crowley feels the echo of it on top of the _very good_ feelings he has from Aziraphale’s lovely hands on him, and _Christ this is going to be good._

He grabs a fistful of that cloud fluff hair, not tugging, just enough to keep him close, stands, and spins them so that he can push Aziraphale down on the bed and climb over him. He _needs_ to have as much of his body in contact with Aziraphale’s as possible. He can accept nothing less.

Aziraphale lets out a loud moan and his hands travel to Crowley’s back, first gripping at his shoulder blades before trailing down his spine and make the return trip under his shirt. _Fuck_ , that feels just about as good as anything Crowley’s ever felt before and he sits up to tear the bloody shirt over his head. When he looks down, Aziraphale’s steely eyes are blown wide and he’s damn near panting under Crowley.

Crowley knew he’d be needy and desperate because he has been for far longer than he ever though he might actually get to have this, but he didn’t account for how needy and desperate _Aziraphale_ would be. It’s like he can’t bring himself to take his hands off of Crowley’s body and damn it all to hell, Crowley doesn’t want him to stop touching.

He leans down and kisses Aziraphale again, letting his tongue fork at the tip and run along his soft palate, letting it length and twine around Aziraphale’s. The angel moans again and reaches down to grip Crowley’s arse, which the demon _did not expect_ , and sends him into a groaning, rocking motion that drags his hard cock against Aziraphale’s through the fabric of their trousers. Just four layers of fabric and they’d be skin to skin. Suddenly, Crowley wants that with every atom of his being.

“Angel, can I?” he groans as he toys with the angel’s waistband.

“ _Yes, Crowley, please”_ , he groans and lifts his hips to give Crowley enough room to undo his button, zip, and drag both his trousers and pants down and off, sending up a small miracle to take care of both of their shoes and socks.

Then Crowley is looking down a very naked, very aroused Aziraphale and his brain short circuits because _fuck._ Aziraphale is all downy softness and honey-flushed skin that screams of arousal and indulgence. His hips are plush and lined with golden stretch marks that Crowley wants to trace with his tongue, and between his legs is the loveliest cock he’s every seen. He hadn’t thought many cocks lovely, really, but this one? Fuck, this one is _perfect_. It’s a little over average length, but thick enough where Crowley can almost feel where it’d ache in his jaw once he got his mouth on him. He has the presence of mind to look lower and that was a mistake because _lower_ contains the most perfect, tempting, truly fucking excellent set of thighs Crowley could imagine. They’re lightly furred with the same white, blonde hue he found on the angel’s chest, and so fucking soft over thick muscle and he wants them around him so badly.

Aziraphale draws his attention back by reaching for the snake head buckle of Crowley’s belt and starting to undo his button and zip and _fuck yes, that._ Unfortunately, that’s as far as Aziraphale can get, considering that Crowley’s trousers are just shy of painted on.

The angel huffs a laugh at Crowley’s frustration and, instead of giving in to his knee-jerk reaction to be offended on behalf of his sartorial choices, he smiles back.

“Sorry angel, one moment.” He stands up and wrestles the bloody things off his legs, cursing the whole time and wondering why exactly he would wear the fucking things, until he’s finally as naked as the angel is. He thinks for a second to be self-conscious. He’s never given much thought to his corporation, but he knows that he’s a mite to skinny for his height and he knows that his ribs are visible. Would Aziraphale really want to snug up to a pile of sticks barely slapped together?

He shouldn’t have worried. The angel comes up to lean on his elbows and gives Crowley a once over that rivals his look in the Bastille.

“Oh darling, _look at you._ You’re just perfect, aren’t you? Every part of you.” Aziraphale says, nearly breathless, and pointedly looking between Crowley’s legs at his own rather insistent effort. While certainly not meeting Aziraphale in circumference, Crowley’s cock is built rather like he is, so he has something on him in terms of length. Luckily, it appears he passes muster in the angel’s eyes.

“ _Me?_ Angel, look at _you_. I’ve never seen anything as gorgeous as you.” It’s true. He looks like the manifestation of a renaissance angel, and he really might be, but that doesn’t matter because he’s beckoning Crowley over to him again.

Crowley takes a few steps and drops to his knees at the edge of the bed so that he can get his mouth on those thighs. As soon as his mouth connects, he moans and presses his hands into each thigh to feel the give over steel of them. He pushes them further apart and allows himself to kiss up the inside of the left, then the right, stopping just short of the juncture to his groin.

“ _Please”_ , Aziraphale groans and it’s so plaintive that Crowley almost gives in. But he wants to be _sure._ He’s wanted this for too long to go too fast now, to misinterpret a signal.

“What do you want, angel? Anything you want, I’ll give you. I want to give you _everything._ ” He says while nuzzling the left thigh and running his hands down to those shapely calves and back up.

“ _You,_ Crowley, for fuck’s sake I want _you.”_ He says, desperate and he’s like that because Crowley _touched him_ and _kissed him_ and now, he wants _more_ and how lucky can one demon get?

“Ask and you shall receive.” Crowley responds cheekily, and licks up Aziraphale’s cock, swirling his tongue around the head and letting it dip into the slit and taste the angel’s essence. It’s a lot like he expected, warm, salty, esoteric, but it’s also nothing like he expected because he hasn’t done this before and the angel’s cock is soft and hard at the same time, and fuck, Crowley could die like this.

Above him, Aziraphale has fisted his hands in Crowley’s black sheets, his head is thrown back and he’s spreading his legs as wide as they’ll go. It’s a clear invitation, and one Crowley is not going to pass up. He swallows Aziraphale’s cock down as far as he can, allowing his throat to open and accept the intrusion. Clearly, he did something right, because Aziraphale nearly yells and fists one hand in Crowley’s hair to still him. Aziraphale’s other hand inserts itself between them, right at the base of his cock where he squeezes tightly and groans.

Crowley pulls off, wanting to make sure he didn’t hurt him, when Aziraphale strokes his face, allowing his thumb to brush Crowley’s swollen lower lip. “ _Darling_ ,” he pants, “while I’d be happy to indulge your oral fixation at another juncture, I was hoping you maybe amenable to, erm,-” he trails off for a moment before pulling Crowley up the length of him, scooting them back so they’re laying properly on the bed, and wrapping his legs around Crowley’s waist.

The intent couldn’t be clearer, and Crowley’s cock, which he’d been largely ignoring, throbs painfully as it it’s trying to reach toward the intended destination. This can’t be happening, right? Aziraphale isn’t asking Crowley to-

 _Fuck._ He has to calm down or he’ll never make it to the main event.

“ _Fuck,_ Aziraphale. Of course, I’m _amenable_. As if I haven’t been thinking about that for thousands of years.” It’s whispered against Aziraphale’s lips and he feels the surge of arousal that runs through the angel as acutely as if it were his own body and cries out in unison with Aziraphale.

He sits up and grabs a bottle of lube from his night table, before looking back to Aziraphale, laying out on his bed like a vision, waiting for Crowley to fuck him.

“Heh, you should know, before we do this, I haven’t-”, he waits a moment to see if it registers but it looks like Aziraphale is too blissed out to catch the meaning, “ah, I haven’t done this before. It’s always been you, y’know. The only one I ever wanted to do this with.”

Aziraphale’s eyes blaze for a moment before he drags Crowley down for another earth-shattering kiss.

“Oh, you wonderful demon, I haven’t either. But I trust you’re well-motivated enough to figure it out.”

 _Bastard._ Stupid bloody brilliant tease of an angel. _Fuck,_ how did Crowley get so lucky?

“Oh, you’ll see how ‘ _well-motivated’_ I am.” He growls into Aziraphale’s neck before he sits back up, pops the cap off of the lube, and slicks a few fingers.

He looks to Aziraphale for confirmation and, upon getting a flirtatious smile in return (something that Crowley saved into his memory _immediately_ for _reasons)_ , he leans to bestow a kiss on Aziraphale’s mark (the one that signifies him, his ability to grow things, to bring life after it was taken from him – what a thing that is), before trailing his fingers between the angel’s cheeks to his puckered entrance.

It’s warm here, just like the rest of the angel, and the sounds he makes when Crowley starts to circle his fingers around it ramps Crowley’s own arousal up until he’s leaking profusely onto the bedding below him.

He’s hoping that Aziraphale, as distracted as he is with the little hitches of his hips trying to catch Crowley’s fingers, won’t notice, but that was clearly a pipe dream. Just as he manages to get one finger into the knuckle, Aziraphale wails, arches, and brings himself up onto his elbows again to look at Crowley. He looks down and sees Crowley’s cock squeeze out yet another stream of precum before he reaches down to swipe it up with his forefinger.

Crowley groans and leans his head against Aziraphale’s knee to brace himself before looking up in enough time to see Aziraphale pop his finger into his _mouth_ , that soft, pink, gorgeous mouth, and moan around it as if Crowley’s taste compares to The Ritz’s famed tasting menu.

“Fuck, angel. If you keep doing that I’m done for.” It’s not even a threat, it’s reality. If Aziraphale does that even one more time, Crowley’s in danger of coming untouched between them.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we? As it seems you have more work to attend to.” He smirks again, and where this bloody confidence is coming from Crowley doesn’t know but _fuck,_ is he appreciative. His angel is bloody hot when he’s a bastard.

“Yes, I do.” Crowley says as a second finger joins the first and successfully finds the angel’s prostate. With just a slight brush, Aziraphale is wailing again and dripping his own steady stream of precum onto his lovely stomach. Crowley leans down and gives his cock head a quick lick before lapping up the puddle he’s been dripping onto himself, and earns himself both hands tangled in his hair as well as another curse from the angel’s beautiful lips.

“Fuck, please Crowley. I’m ready, please _now.”_ And Crowley could get used to this begging, needy version of Aziraphale that seems to need him closer any second. He really, really could.

“Okay, _fuck,_ yeah, alright.” He says as he gently extracts his fingers, slicks his cock, and positions himself at the angel’s entrance.

He pulls Aziraphale’s thighs up around his waist and snakes a hand down to his cock to make sure the angle works. He stares deep into Aziraphale’s eyes as he pushes in. He sees Aziraphale’s eyes widen and his mouth drop on a gasp as Crowley enters him slowly, and then he feels the angel hook his ankles at the small of Crowley’s back and pull him in.

He can’t help moaning long and loud; the angel is blood hot inside, and so smooth and soft, gripping his cock tighter than anything he could’ve imagined. It _must_ hurt for how tight it is.

“Y’okay angel?” He pants out. He can’t get a full breath in, but he can feel Aziraphale’s labored breaths in his chest pressing against Crowley’s and his breath against his cheek.

“ _Oh, Crowley_ ,” the angel whimpers, “So good, darling. You feel _so good._ ” And that’s it. That’s the end of Crowley’s self-control. Really, he thinks he should get a commendation for 6,000 years and change of holding it together before he groans and thrusts hard into the angel, luckily striking that spot inside him after familiarizing himself with its location before.

His angel has certainly never been bashful, but he’s so _vocal_ in bed that it’s doing Crowley in. Every time he strikes that spot Aziraphale nearly yells his pleasure and Crowley wants him to fill the fucking bedroom with those sounds. He wants to hear the echoes of them for the rest of his life.

Aziraphale’s arms were wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders, but the split directions, one traveling down to grab his arse and encourage his thrusts, the other coming to stroke his mark which, _fuck._

Oh boy was Crowley right about that spot. Having Aziraphale’s hand on it without barrier is a brand-new sensation. It feels like burning, but in the best way. He has enough wherewithal to extract one of his hands from those gorgeous thighs to return the favor and trace Aziraphale’s vines, which has the angel clenching down on him, arching his back, and out-and-out begging Crowley for more.

“Anything, angel.” He pants and slams himself in harder, giving a filthy grind at the end that has Aziraphale crying out and coming between them, untouched. It’s enough to white Crowley’s mind out enough that he stays, right there, while Aziraphale fucks himself through it on Crowley’s cock.

“ _Don’t. Stop.”_ Aziraphale growls and _fuck_ does Crowley like that sound.

“ _I won’t. Never.”,_ he growls right back, hikes those thighs up over his shoulders, nearly folding the angel in half, as he pounds into that tight, blinding heat again and again.

He can hear Aziraphale crying out with each thrust but doesn’t notice until it’s almost too late that he’s brought the angel right to the edge again.

Aziraphale’s hair is a wreck, all curls and messy fluff, and he’s nearly crying. Crowley wants to stop and ask, but one desperate look from the angel shows him that his overwhelmed in the best way, and Crowley’s ego can’t take much more before it bloody takes over.

He pulls himself almost all the way out, and then grinds back in, slow and torturous, just enough so that he can hit that spot as much as possible, and then Aziraphale is sobbing out again and his cock is twitching out a few more spurts of come before Crowley gives in to his own desire and comes deep in the angel, teeth sinking into his left thigh enough to bruise.

He gently lowers Aziraphale’s legs from his shoulders before leaning down and almost collapsing right on top of him, heedless of the mess now between them. They’re both breathing heavily still, but this is where Crowley wants to be, where he’s always wanted to be; both protected and protecting. There’s something poetic about it, but they are honest-to-God (hah!) soulmates, so he supposes he’s earned the right to wax a little bit poetic here and there.

After a moment, Crowley feels fingers start to run through his hair, brushing the sweat dampened strands off of his forehead. If it keeps going, he’s going to fall asleep, but he wants to make sure he says it again.

He leans up and kisses Aziraphale, slowly and deeply, letting every ounce of his love and devotion pour into it, hoping Aziraphale feels every bit of it. Shockingly, he can feel the same feeding into him. Demons may not be able to feel love like angels can, but soulmates can feel each other’s. He knows that now with bone-deep certainty.

He breaks the kiss and runs his nose along Aziraphale’s, earning a beaming smile. “I love you, angel.” He whispers into the quiet space between them.

“Darling, I love you too. It would seem that I always have.” Aziraphale damn near coos at Crowley, and it’s so sincere that he can’t even begin to feel it anything less.

“M’taking you for brunch in the morning. Anywhere you want to go.” Crowley says, in what he thinks is the beginning of many promises he’ll be making.

“Oh, that sounds lovely!” He responds as he strokes just under Crowley’s amber eye, “How would you feel about some crepes?”

Crowley laughs, full and loud, cleans them up with a click of his fingers, and tucks them beneath his duvet.

That night, Crowley doesn’t dream. He doesn’t need to anymore because, against all odds and evidence to the contrary, it seems like some dreams do end up coming true.


End file.
